Grasping at Stars
by GingerWithaSoul17
Summary: Sequel to "When Mourning Comes". It's been a year and a half since the events of the previous story. Daanik is in reclusion, and Skyrim is in stasis. Unbeknownst to him, however, the jaws of fate are just beginning to howl. What happens when the mourning Dragonborn seeks his revenge? Will his mind finally break?
1. Nightshade

**A/N: I'm back :D And I come bearing gifts: The first chapter to the sequel of "When Mourning Comes". Sorry it took so long, I had a lot on my plate. Well, that, and I'm a lazy bastard. But anyways, go, shoo, read the chapter, and let me know what you think. I hope it's worth the wait. Enjoy!**

**EDIT: Again, this is the SEQUEL to When Mourning Comes. I'd suggest you read that first.**

**CHAPTER 1**

_Boom. Boom boom. Boom. Boom boom. _The thud of an enormous drum reverberates throughout my entire body. I can feel the vibrations, as they travel from the tips of my fingers, to the soles of my feet, and into the recesses of my mind. _Boom. Boom boom. _I look up; the cloudy sky, hovering above the flat plain, is blood red with the light of the setting sun. _Boom. Boom boom. _The grass beneath my feet is crushed and mangled, trampled flat by thousands of heavy footsteps. I look down at my hands, and notice the presence of two swords, one clasped in my left palm, and the other in my right. _Boom. Boom boom. _I stare blankly at the twin daedric blades, until I suddenly recognize them. _As I should. I forged them myself. _I clench the hilts tightly. _Bahlok and Nax_.

_Boom. Boom boom._

And then, the chanting begins. It starts quietly, from somewhere far behind me, and I don't pay attention to it. But it grows, the guttural sounds spreading like wildfire, armored boots stomping in unison, voices echoing across the field. "Rah, ro, ha! Rah, ro, ha!" Over and over again. _Boom. Boom boom. _The chant grows louder and louder, and I turn around, eyes wide. Behind me, clad in red and brown armor, stands the entire Imperial legion. "Rah, ro, ha!" _Boom. Boom boom. _Tens of thousands of soldiers, all stomping, chanting, fury increasing with every second, arrayed behind me in a massive display of force.

Then, on the other side of the field, a line appears. And then another. And another. _Boom. Boom boom. _Thousands upon thousands of armored figures, their numbers growing every second, lining up against me like a tidal wave. "Rah, ro, ha!" They're too far away to make out clearly, but their battlecries are loud enough to be heard over the chanting, the constant chanting, of the legion. "Rah, ro, ha! Rah, ro, ha!" The vocalization and the stomping reaches a fevered pitch with every addition to the enemy's ranks, growing faster and faster, louder and louder, making my blood boil and my heart hammer in my chest. And then, with one final roar, a final drumbeat sounds with an echoing reverberation, signaling the end of the chorus. The battlefield is dead silent.

_Why did they stop? _I wonder, confused. I turn around to face the now silent soldiers. But they're gone. The field behind me is completely and eerily empty. The only sound is a sudden gust of wind, that blows my tresses back and stirs the short grass. The hair on the back of my neck stands up, as I turn back to the opposing behemoth. I gaze at the menacing body of soldiers in fear, as they now begin their own chanting. It's discordant; broken, unorganized, furious. And then, as the bloody light of the setting sun dims, turning into the color of red wine held up against a lantern, the army charges, coming at me like a black wave from Oblivion.

The sky flashes once, brightly, as the crimson sun disappears below the horizon. I squeeze my eyes shut to avoid the blinding light, and just as I do, a bellowing roar rends my ears apart, splitting my skull with it's immense volume.

"_DOVAHKIIN!"_

My eyes snap open, and I sit up in bed, panting. With the motion, the thick covers slide off of my upper body, and the cold air hits my bare skin. The sheen of sweat covering my body grows cold almost instantly, and I shiver in the darkness. But, I welcome the cool, Skyrim air. I always have. It calms me. I shift slightly, and tiredly rub my eyes. Sighing, I place my hands on the bed, resting my weight on it. I gently knead the fabric of the sheet between two fingers, absentmindedly marveling at the movement. Then my consciousness catches up to the rest of my mind, and I squeeze my hand into a fist, crushing the fabric in my calloused palm. I look up, and glance out the window, to judge the time. _The stars are still out. Can't be past three in the morning. _I let out a tired breath of air, and rub my eyes again, resting my face in my hands. I feel myself become more and more aware as the seconds pass. This was a rather recent development; I used to laze around all day, taking naps when I could, laying in the shade of the Northland's majestic pines. But that had changed. Now, when I woke up, I truly _awoke_. It was almost instantaneous.

I bring my hands away from my eyes, studying them apathetically while my conscious mind dissects the dream that I'd just had. This particular recurring nightmare had started about a month ago, maybe a little more. This is the fourth time that I've had it. With each time, it has gotten longer, clearer, and even more vivid that any previous installments. My brow furrows, as I recall the sequential progression of the dreams. The original one had been nothing but the powerful drumbeat, and flashing images of a red sky. Gradually, the picture had become clearer. The newest element, the one from tonight, was the disappearance of the legion. Such a tiny change, with such far-reaching possibilities.

_They're just dreams. _I chide myself. But the sense of foreboding doesn't leave me. I comfort myself with the fact that each dream has, in fact, been different form it's predecessors. The picture could still change dramatically, for all I know.

A soft, yet firm voice cuts through the chilly air. "The future isn't set in stone, mate." Amaril says, appearing from within the shadows of a corner. I rest my hands on my knees, and turn my gaze to him. The elf hasn't worn his Brotherhood armor since I left the sanctuary almost two years ago, and tonight isn't an exception. Currently, he's wearing black leather pants, black boots, and a blue shirt that hugs his lithe frame. His long, light-brown hair hangs down to the middle of his back. It swishes slightly when he walks. A few stray strands always seem to resent being tucked away behind his ears, or into a ponytail, and so elect to fall across his face. A long, very slim sword in a silver sheathe hangs at his side. His "instrument", as he calls it. The description is usually accompanied by a lopsided, rather macabre smile on his part.

But the elf isn't smiling now. He paces through the room, and leans on the wall to my left, next to the window, golden eyes studying me all the while.

"Maybe not." I answer. "But what do the events matter, if they all lead to the same conclusion?" Every time, the dream had ended in the same way, with that thunderous call, that primeval summons of my kind. _Dovahkiin…_

Amaril doesn't answer, but he doesn't look away, either. His gaze remains fixed on me, silent, thoughtful.

I ignore him, and push the rest of the blankets off of my semi-clothed body. The air seems to grow even colder, and I'm relatively pleased at the feeling. I stretch vigorously, feeling my muscles flex and coil.

"Aren't you tired?" The elf asks, though he already knows the answer. We've been over this countless times in the past year and seven months.

"Why try to sleep, when I know that my efforts will be in vain?" I mutter. In truth, I _am _tired. Exhausted, in fact. But I won't be able to sleep, especially not after a nightmare. They used to be so rare, so far between. But…not anymore.

I get up, neglecting to put on a shirt. It's freezing. I consider crawling back into bed, but determine that I really couldn't care less about the chill. _What doesn't kill you…Either way, I'll work up a sweat soon enough anyway. _I pad across the floor of the small bedroom, out the door, and into the kitchen. I walk over to the cabinet to my left, and retrieve a stone cup. Underneath the cabinet is a counter, and underneath that is a tall, stone, cylinder-shaped bowl. It's about three feet deep, two feet across, and filled with clear water and a sizable chunk of ice. Basically, a small, above-ground well. It's usually enough to drink and cook with for about a week. I built it after I got sick of walking the fifteen miles down to the Solitude well every day. I prefer the quiet up here, on the mountain, to the oppressive crowds of the city. Amaril always finds that amusing, saying that I prefer solitude over Solitude.

I fill the cup I'd grabbed with the icy water, and begin drinking thirstily. The cold makes my jaw ache, just a little bit. I welcome the feeling, and down the rest of the liquid. I place the cup back into it's cabinet, and retrieve a chunk of bread from the one to it's left. I gnaw on it slowly, as I make my way out of the small cabin. I place my hand against the front door, the rough wood rubbing against my calloused palms. It squeaks as it's weathered hinges strain. I take a step outside, shutting the door behind me. I look around, taking in the tall trees, a mixture of perennial and pine that's unique to the border between Haafingar and Hjaalmarch. The mixture of colors; reds, yellows, browns, and oranges, against the dark green, almost black pines, is really quite beautiful. I scan the familiar clearing in seconds, before glancing slightly up at the sky. I do so often at night. Glancing, but never gazing. My mood darkens, and I make my way around the side of the cabin, fallen leaves crunching beneath my bare feet.

I round the corner of the house, arriving at my destination. I wonder, slightly apathetically, why I never built a back door into the small building. The thought slips from my mind with a mental shrug, without leaving any consequence in it's wake. I focus my attention on the impressive array before me. Hanging on the wall directly to my left is a display of four different types of one-handed weapons, two of each, made out of thick, sturdy iron. Each shows signs of wear; denting, dullness, chipping, and general roughness. About ten feet beyond the weapons array stand three sets of practice dummies, each cluster another ten feet to the left and right of the center set. Each individual group is made up of either one, two, or three dummies, going from left to right, respectively. Each different arrangement offers a new battle scenario. Beyond the dummies is a makeshift shooting range; a lone tree with a target carved into it on the far left side of the clearing.

I cock my head slightly to the side, debating which set seems to best fit the morning. After a few seconds, I find myself shifting towards the single dummy, and so decide on that one. It would probably be a better idea to practice hand-to-hand combat with the larger arrangement, but I don't really care. It's not like I need the training; that's all I've done for the past year and a half, since I began living in the little cottage.

Without picking up any combination of the practice weapons, I step towards the single target. The thick burlap sack covering it's straw body is weatherbeaten and torn; a testament to it's constant state of use. I grasp it's shoulders roughly, shaking the entire structure to make sure that it's firmly planted in the ground.

When I'm satisfied that it is, I step back, and square off against the dummy. I place my feet about a shoulder's width apart, grinding my bare heels into the leaf-covered ground in order to create some semblance of traction. I take a deep breath, and focus on the target, letting the edges of my vision go black. I exhale, and raise my fists. I inhale once more, and then, fast as lightning, I draw my fist back, step forward, and slam it into the dummy's chest. The entire structure shakes as a I let loose a flurry of blows, a fist to the chest, a haymaker to the right temple, a jab to the abdomen. My hair whips back and forth with the momentum of my twisting body, and with each strike, I feel my weariness slowly dissipating, and I increase the speed of my blows.

After a few minutes, muscle memory takes over, and my mind begins to wander. I purposely flex my right arm with the next punch, watching the muscles coil and bulge. The lean figure that I had had throughout my entire life is, well, completely gone. I'm nowhere near as hulking as Captain Aldis, or some of the warhammer-wielding legionnaires, but I've grown very muscular over the past year. That's part of the reason why I'd forged two twin daedric swords to replace my daggers. After I lost the first one, I'd used the second to fight for a few months. But, once I reached the pinnacle of speed, but wasn't getting the most out of my newfound strength, I'd decided to lay down the last piece of my Brotherhood life. So, one day, I went outside, and stood in the center of the cabin's clearing. I took one last look at the slim blade, and without hesitation, hurled it straight up into the air. As it reached the peak of it's flight, I inhaled sharply, and shouted at it. And with a boom, the wine-red dagger was hurled out of my sight, flashing as it whirled through the air. I felt a pang, as it vanished, and bile rose in my throat. I forced it down, however, stalking slowly back to my training arena.

The next day, I'd walked down into the city, and bought the materials for two daedric swords. Solitude's smith, Beirand, allowed to let me use his forge, with the stipulation that I compensate him for lost work time. I agreed. It took an entire week, but my new blades were perfected into instruments of cruel beauty. Odhaving gave them their names, after watching me tear through a bandit camp. I'd called him to help me clear it out, but he ended up just sitting, and watching, his assistance wholly unnecessary. I fell into a bloody rage that day, hacking and slashing with vicious abandon. _You are angry, Dovah-sos. _The ancient dragon had rumbled, gravely. _You thirst for punishment, for blood. You are Bahlok and Nax, when you fight. These are your blades: hunger, and cruelty. _His voice contained a strange mixture of admiration and pity. It made me sick to my stomach.

My mind whips back to the present. I grow furious at the memory, and lash out at the dummy with my foot. My heel impacts it squarely in the chest, and with a creaking snap, the thick wooden support goes flying. The action satisfies me for only a moment, as my already boiling blood is fueled even more by the prospect of having to build and entirely new target. Scowling, I stalk over to the back wall of the cabin, towards the practice weapons, deciding to finish my morning training before working on the replacement dummy.

I debate which weapons to use for only a second. My eyes scan the four sets: the two war axes, daggers, broadswords, and maces. I yank the the pair of swords off of the wall, and whip around, making my way into the forest, still growling under my breath. I hear the clatter of metal behind me, as one or more of the practice weapons falls, but I elect to ignore it. I walk past the dummies, across the makeshift shooting range, and into the tree line. I continue for about a hundred yards, before stopping in front of a thick, sturdy tree. Normally, I would inspect it first, or at least make sure what _type _of tree it was, but not today. Today, I just want to break things. I square off against the thick trunk, hefting the swords in each hand. I squeeze the cloth-wrapped hilts tightly, flexing my arms, testing the weight of the blades. And then, in a flash, I'm swinging, the heavy iron whistling in the air as it makes it's way towards the trunk. Splinters of bark and wood-pulp spray through the air, as I hack, slash, and stab with a graceful, but distinctly wild, skill.

I'd taken up this element of my training a week or two after I forged Bahlok and Nax. My goal was to build my endurance by hacking away at a tree until it fell. The blunted weapons that I'd purchased for the practice dummies were perfect for this; the daedric blades would have sliced through the wood like it was butter. The first tree that I'd ever attempted was two feet thick, and it had taken me three days to chop it down. Now, it doesn't take me any longer than a few hours. It isn't a technique-centered exercise, obviously. I go down to Castle Dour for that, on occasion. But, honestly, no one in Solitude is even close to a match for me.

I grow annoyed at my unfocused mind, and renew my assault with a growl.

* * *

The tree begins to tip around ten o'clock, six hours later. By that time, my chest is heaving, I'm covered in sweat, and each blade feels like it's heavier than the tree itself. With a final, titanic effort, I bring my leg up and slam it, foot-first, into the trunk, kicking and pushing with the same level of ferocity. The splintered remains of the timber creaks dangerously, and shudders. Finally, with a tremendous thundering racket, it crashes to the ground.

Two years ago, I would have smiled at the success. But all I feel now is no more than a bored acknowledgement. _It's good. But no less than I expected. _

Each time I fell a tree, I try to lift it. Not really because I think I can, but because of something Amaril had said. He'd always joke about my training regiment, disapproving of it for some reason. One day, after I'd cut down my third tree, he'd rolled his eyes and said, "Now carry it down to Solitude, and present it to Jarlessa Elisif herself." I'd given him a withering glare, and even though I was minutes away from collapsing to the ground, I'd placed my shoulder underneath the fallen trunk. Of course, it hadn't budged. I'd heaved and strained until the veins stood out on my neck, and my vision blurred. And when nothing happened, I'd shouted it off the side of the mountain in fury.

Even now, I haven't been able to budge the massive weight even an inch. Shouting it away, however, proved to be a relatively efficient method of discarding the trees. I only ever kept one or two for basic things, such as firewood, or for repairs. But the rest of the fallen trunks always seemed to land perfectly in the middle of the East Empire Company's port. _I just have to make sure that I don't hit a ship. _I think dryly, flinging the massive object away with my voice. I wonder what people think when they see entire trees rocketing through the air. _Honestly, I doubt anyone really ever notices. Except the guards, that is. It's their job to notice things. But they all know me. I'm their hero. _I scoff to myself. _Anyway, the occasional merchant would just assume someone had mixed Skooma in with his mead the night before. _A thought occurs to me, and I scowl. _They wouldn't dare ask me to stop, anyway. _Glowering, I walk back to the cabin, mood suddenly soured.

* * *

The smooth rasp of the sharpened stone against the dry hardwood is comforting. I grip the leather-wrapped section of the long, slim instrument, holding it like a pen as I add another stroke into the slab of pine. The wood is about twice the size of my hand, free of bark and rubbed smooth. I trace the design with the tips of my fingers, feeling the contours of the carved material. I frown, and continue my work, ignoring the wood shavings on the mattress. It's dark outside now; the window is open, and the small flame of the candle on my bedside table flickers in the breeze. The soft light casts long shadows across the walls, living tendrils of darkness, grasping at something unknowable. I ignore them, and continue carving.

"What are you doing?" Amaril asks quietly. I look over; he's sitting in the window, with his right side facing me. One leg is bent, resting on the window sill along with the rest of him, while the other leg is dangling out the other side. He leans back against the frame, and looks out into the night. His long, brown tresses stir in the breeze, and the candle flickers again.

"You know what I'm doing." I answer, looking back down at the wood. I raise the steel instrument again, etching details where they're needed.

"I do." He murmurs, still facing away, gazing out the window. He turns his head towards me, hair swinging, golden eyes unreadable. "Just making conversation." He doesn't smile.

Sighing, I place the razor-sharp knife on the table next to the candle, and hold the carving up for the elf to see. His face darkens, and multiple emotions flash across his face, among the, pity, anger, and grief. I drop the wood with a curse, angry at his reaction. I curse again, hurling the wood into a corner. It clatters to the ground, leaving a splintered dent where it struck the wall.

"That's not healthy, you know." Amaril states quietly. I let out a bark of derisive laughter.

"Health? Recovery?" I shake my head, still chuckling grimly. The idea is so ludicrous.

The elf sighs in defeat. I turn around, and lay down, pulling the blanket over my icy body. I don't feel any better. I face the wall, trying to get rid of the barbed knives in my stomach.

I toss and turn for a while, but eventually, I fall asleep. My dreams are filled with a haunting voice, singing, murmuring, whispering. It's words are sweet and malicious, all the same, but never truly audible. And I can never find it's source. All I see is a deep, purple flower, shot through with pearly white, it's petals floating in the wind. _Nightshade._

**A/N: One chapter down, twenty or more to go. Reviews are always appreciated; let me know what you think!**


	2. Nessun Dorma

**Sorry it took so long, I honestly have no excuse but writer's block this time. I promise, i will try my hardest to get the next chapter up ASAP! Until then, enjoy this :) EDIT: Thanks for the review, Y-Ko, I've made the changes. **

CHAPTER 2

Her eyes, as deep a crimson as the final seconds of a summer sunset, crinkle at the corners as a grin stretches across her face. Then, they close, just for a second, as she tosses her head back and laughs, white teeth flashing, pearly hair gleaming in the moonlight. I laugh along with her, but not as raucously, my own eyes tracing every angle of her visage, memorizing every shade of color in her face as they meld into each other, shifting and changing as the clouds pull across the moon. There's only one out, tonight; Masser, I think. Though, in all honesty, the moon is taking up the least of my attention. Then, again, the clouds part, and yet again, the colors of her skin shift from dark, pine-green, to the shade of silver-kissed sea foam. Her lips, from icy mint leaves, to the color of morning dew in spring. She is the most beautiful woman in the world, standing there, bathed in silver light.

I pull my gaze away from her face. Or, more accurately, I focus on _her_, not just on the planes and angles that make up the sum of her parts. She's not laughing anymore, but smiling, calmly, contentedly, looking at me with the deep affection that thrills me to be the recipient of. I smile back, and take her hand, pulling her through the trees. She giggles at the movement, and follows my lead, as we leap over boulders and roots and fallen tree trunks, making no more noise than a passing breeze.

We run together for a while, until we reach our destination. Our spot; my perch. Ironically, the place where she'd almost fallen to her death, and where I'd had my worst nightmare in years, was the happiest place in Tamriel to us. It was the place where we'd truly found each other, for the first time. Where we had realized that we were completely, unequivocally, in love. We stop running, and cross the tree line, hands clasped together. I look around the clearing, taking in each and every familiar detail as if it were a new wonder to me. The gradual lengthening of the grass beneath my feet, until it's just long enough to sway in the breeze. The scattered droplets of molten amethysts, the dark nightshade blossoms, opening their petals to the moon. The aurora, bright blue tonight, a soft river suspended in the heavens, flowing on towards gods know where. And the myriad of stars visible from the perch, hundreds, thousands of bright splinters of diamond, glowing against the black canvas of the night sky.

A cloud drifts across the moon, once again darkening the world. The clearing suddenly feels less open, much more private. We continue walking until we reach the edge of the cliff, and sit down, I, with my legs crossed, toying with a twig in my lap, and she, with her legs drawn up against her chest. She wraps her arms around them, and leans her chin on her knees. She looks straight ahead, eyes staring at some indiscernible point in space, no doubt lost in thought. I don't mind the silence; I'm content to simply sit, and watch the beautiful girl. I resume attempting to identify and catalogue every possible aspect of her face. But, the deeper I look, the more difficult my task becomes. Typically unnoticeable things become obvious with time, such as her eyelashes. Each one of the long, curved hairs casts it's own minute shadow onto the plane of her face, and each time that the wind so much as stirs, they shift, forcing me to start over. After a minute, however, I give up, and follow her gaze out to the sky. I begin counting the stars meditatively, unconsciously allowing my thoughts to wander.

"The sky here is different from the one in Morrowind." Gabriella murmurs quietly, breaking the silence. I look up at her words, brushing my hair out of my face to clear my vision. She continues staring straight ahead, thoughts still elsewhere. I wonder if she's even aware that she has spoken.

"How so?" I ask, turning my gaze to the heavens, and then back to the elf. She looks up at my voice, a questioning expression on her smooth face. She relaxes.

"Oh. Well, in Morrowind, everything has a reddish hue to it, as if it has been covered by a thin sheet of dust. I never realized it until I came to Skyrim; the night here is blacker, the stars shine brighter." She pauses for a moment, biting her lip thoughtfully. "Everything has an icy clarity to it." She finishes, turning back to me, crimson eyes asking whether I understood.

I nod. "That's how I felt when I came here from Cyrodiil. Everything there seems…green, and soft." I laugh slightly at my less than eloquent description, and Gabriella smiles. "But here…" I trail off for a moment, trying to find the right words to accurately convey my thoughts. "Skyim is all ice, and rocks, and wind-blasted trees. It is what it is because of the snow, the moons, the stars." The elf nods, again leaning her head on her knees, resuming her thinking. "It's wild, and ageless." I murmur, my words not directed at anyone in particular.

A few minutes pass. The silence is companionable; we're both comfortable enough with one another to understand when words are necessary, and when they aren't. After another minute or so, she speaks again.

"What is it, about this place, that calls to you so strongly?" The elf inquires in her lilting voice, again fixing me with her crimson gaze.

I pause for a moment, attempting to formulate the best response to her question. But I can't think of a way to truly convey my emotions towards this place. I don't completely understand them myself. So, after a while, I settle on the simplest answer. "The view." I reply, gesturing out towards the sky. "You can see the stars from here."

She nods thoughtfully, then continues, "Then, what is it about the stars that draws you?" Her eyes remain focused on me, intent as ever.

I sigh. This time, a response comes to me in the blink of an eye, the answer as familiar as anything could be. I look down into my lap, and resume toying with the grass there. My long, auburn hair hangs into my eyes, as a speak. "My parents…they were killed, when I was very young. You know that." Gabriella makes a sympathetic sound, and I take a deep breath, before continuing. "The last words my mother said to me, were that I should run as far and as fast as I could. And I did. I fled to Whiterun. But, the road to the city was a long one, especially for a seven year old." I force a chuckle, and the elf wraps her arm around my shoulders. I smile gratefully. "So, I cut through a forest, somehow managing to avoid wolves, sabre-cats, frostbite spiders, bandits; none of them ever took any notice of me. I didn't realize how lucky I was of that fact until a few years later. Anyway, it was that first night after my home had been burned. I was sitting on a flat rock, crying my eyes out. I didn't know what to do. I was just a child; I couldn't go on by myself." My voice hitches, and I stop for a moment, to clear my throat. I look up at Gabriella. Her eyes, the color of wine held in front of a lantern, shine with empathetic emotion. I look down again, before continuing. "I just…happened to glance up. I remember my eyes flicking back down again, without really taking notice. And then, something shifted in me. I looked up at the stars, and I stopped crying." The elf smiles, the expression a mixture of comfort and sadness. I feel her soft hand, as she gently brushes the hair out of my eyes. Her touch sends a pang of emotion through my stomach. "There…there were these two stars in particular. They were side by side, and brighter than all the rest. And, somehow, my young mind decided to believe that those silver sparks in the night where my parents, watching over me." I let out a breath of air, almost a laugh, relief at finally letting go of the memory washing over me. "I stayed up all night. Watching. Gazing. And when the morning came, I got up, and began walking to Whiterun. And…I haven't cried for them since then."

I glance up at her, just for a second, to see her reaction, but quickly look away again. I clench my jaw, annoyed that I allowed myself to be so vulnerable with her. I look off to the side, and begin to apologize, but Gabriella's fingertips on my cheek stop me. She guides me around, until I'm facing her. She shifts from her prior seated position to a kneeling one, moving in very close to me. I look up at her, sculpted face framed by diamond waves of hair. "I love you, Daanik Sun-Strider." She murmurs, before leaning down to kiss me. The warmth of her lips against mine sweeps through my mind like a gust of cleansing wind, carrying with it all the clutter and fear and anger that I'd left to fester over the years, things I'd forgotten existed at all. When she pulls away, my breathing is clearer, lighter. I smile up at her.

"And I you, Gabriella Aschrown."

She pulls back, with a content, happy expression on her face, and returns to her original seated position. Again, she rests on her knees, head tilted slightly downwards, so that all that's really visible of her face are her eyes. They have a glow to them, like dying embers in in the night. Silence envelopes the two of us, as we resume our stargazing. A breeze whispers across my face, and I shiver slightly. Gabriella extends her arm, and I look up at the movement. She reaches out over the edge of the cliff, palm facing upwards, and concentrates. A softly crackling flame, about the size of a small melon, grows into existence on the face of her hand. Once it's fully formed, she slowly pulls her hand out from under the ball of fire, and to my surprise, it remains floating in midair.

"It is a spell that I have been working on. A combination between a Magelight, and a simple Flames spell." Gabriella explains, at the expression on my face. A proud smile flits across her lips.

I grin, proud of her unparalleled skill. Single schools of magic were relatively easy to manipulate, but integrating two of them, such as Alteration and Destruction, isn't an easy task even for veteran mages.

We inch closer to the fire, crossing our legs and leaning forward slightly, trying to absorb as much warmth as possible. I stare straight ahead, eyes pointed towards the crackling ball of flames, trying to make out it's center. Slowly, I lose myself in the dance of the burning tongues, trying to find some rhyme or reason to their movement. I find none, but don't seem to care, as the combination of warmth and light lulls me into an almost hypnotic state.

After a few minutes, Gabriella scoots closer to me, and leans her head against my shoulder. I look down, surprised at the motion. Then I smile, and press my lips against her pale hair. She sighs deeply, and leans in closer, the soft curve of her body fitting perfectly with my own. I wrap my arm around her, and hold her close. Feeling her warmth. Breathing in her scent.

I part my lips to whisper something, but stop, as the elf lays one, delicate finger on my lips. Her ruby eyes stare up at me expectantly, as if waiting for me to take action on something that apparently already seemed clear to her. And then, slowly, without being aware of the action as it happens, I open my eyes.

I stare at the ceiling in silence for a few seconds, my mind adjusting to the reality of the situation. _I'm in a small cabin, somewhere between Hjaalmarch and Haafingar. It's very cold. My hair is long. My daggers are gone. And Gabriella…is…_And suddenly, the weight of the sky crashes down on top of me. I let out an involuntary sob, my chest heaving with it's intensity. The fact that the experience that I'd just relived was only a dream slowly dawns on me, and I wrapped my arms around my stomach, and hunch over, trying to force myself to calm down. "Oh gods…" I whisper, pleading for an end to this misery.

I grab ahold of a section of the bed's frame in each hand, crushing it in my fists until my knuckles turn white. I feel my nails carving trenches through the wood. _Better it than my skin. _I hear the material creak, and after a minute, I calm down sufficiently enough to release the planks. I hold my hands up to my face; my fingers are torn and bloody from the splinters.

I lay them on the blanket, still breathing heavily, and concentrate on the stains my bloody hands leave on the virgin cloth. Suddenly, a voice reaches my ears, interrupting my attempt at settling into comforting, though temporary, single-minded ignorance.

"Gabriella, this time?" Amaril asks, voice as calm as ever. I look up; he's standing in the open doorway, his tall frame difficult to make out in the dark.

I don't have the energy to respond with anger. I nod, numbly, looking back down at the blanket. I clench my hands, and a bit more blood trickles from them.

"Gods…" He murmurs, sympathetically, and walks over to the side of the bed. "I'm sorry, mate." He puts a comforting hand on my shoulder. I don't respond. I continue to stare at my hands, examining the red stains as they seep further and further into the cloth, trying to identify the shapes they represent. Amaril sighs at my unresponsive attitude. "Well, at least you didn't dream about the legion again."

His words strike a nerve in me. "Why?" I mutter, the word almost indiscernible.

"What?" He asks.

"Why?!" I roar, hurling the blanket away and leaping out of bed. The cabin trembles slightly at my voice, as I turn my burning gaze to the elf. "Why must I be subjected to this nightly torment?!" I scream. The ground shakes harder this time, and the elf holds out his arms to steady himself, eyes wide. "What did I do to deserve this?!" Dust falls from the ceiling, and I hear a rafter crack.

"Tell me!"

My words echo, coming out louder than they should have due to the influx of unwanted power that so readily jumps to my aid now. Amaril doesn't answer me, and I force myself to remain silent as well. I grit my teeth, and look down, clenching every muscle in my body. Slowly, the shaking stops, and the dust settles. The tiny room is silent, but for my labored panting. My rage abates almost as quickly as it had come. The threat is gone. Even still, I don't want to look up. I don't want to meet Amaril's eyes, afraid of what I might find there, be it anger, disappointment, or worst of all: pity.

The elf still doesn't say anything, and after a minute, I look up, and sigh. He's gone. I turn around, and sit down heavily on the bed. Absentmindedly, I notice that my ears are still ringing from the force of my own voice. I flick my eyes towards the corner, catching a glimpse of the carving that I had made last night, barely visible in the somber night. Without thinking, I stand up, and drag myself over to the cracked piece of wood. I pick it up, and brush the dust off of it. My head swims when I see the image; suddenly, I feel immensely tired. I sit back down on the bed, and close my eyes for a second to stop the world from spinning. When I feel like my stability has increased sufficiently, I open my eyes again, almost unwillingly. I look down at the flower carved into the wood, and a pang lances through my stomach.

"Gods…" I whisper, desperately wanting something, _anything_, some form of guidance. I beg for the hand of the Gods to carry me, just this once. But, my prayers go unnoticed.

After sitting in silence for what must have been at least an hour, I slowly sink back onto the bed, fingers still clasped around the fractured carving. I glance out the window; it's nowhere near dawn yet. I turn back around, shivering, and close my eyes. The words of Gabriella's lullaby come to me, unbidden. A single tear, trickles down my face.

I don't remember falling asleep. All I recall in the moments before, is a melody, and a hand on my cheek. Both are imagined, I know; but they're comforting all the same. For once, I let myself be peaceful, and take comfort in the denial that sleep offers.

**How was it? As always, let me know, leave a review. They're appreciated VERY much :) **


	3. The Road to War

**Third chapter, up and running. I'd really love to say something witty, or at least mildly entertaining, but it's late. I'm tired. And I'd really love some sleep. So, without further ado: Enjoy!**

CHAPTER 3

I awake to the sound of a sharp, intrusive rapping at my front door. I groan internally at the sound, and push the covers off of my body with a sluggish acceptance of the imminent annoyance. I sit on the edge of the mattress, just for a few seconds, regenerating the icy shield around my consciousness. The same shield that had shattered last night. I exhale heavily. The knocking sounds again, even more assertive this time, and I growl.

"Alright!" I call out, only slightly aggressively. I sigh, sufficiently satisfied with my current level of emotional detachment, and heave myself up off the bed. It's colder than yesterday; and I decide to throw on a shirt for once. I pull the blue fabric over my head, and just as I do, the infernal knocking sounds again, with the rapping lasting twice as long this time.

"Yes, I hear you, I'm coming!" I yell, the annoyance in my voice definitely clear at this point. I roll up the sleeves on the shirt, and stalk out of the room, pacing quickly through the hallway and into the kitchen. Just as I'm five steps away from the door, the gods-damned sound permeates my ears again. I clench my teeth, striding forward, and throw open the door with a vicious swing.

"What?!" I snarl, my words accentuated by the sharp crack of the door slamming into the outer wall of the house.

In front of me stands a man dressed in black leather pants, and a rough, sleeveless brown tunic. His body seems small and thin at first glance, but his arms indicate a far more wiry build. A runner's frame. His face is flinty and windburned, indicating a large amount of time spent out doors. Overall, he has a slightly dirty appearance. _A courier. _I guess, completing my analysis. My suspicions are confirmed when the man hefts a medium-sized leather satchel, emblazoned with the logo of the Skyrim Courier's Guild: an envelope, stamped with red wax, with a pair of white wings extending from it's back.

My eyes travel back up to my visitor's face, eyes narrowing at his expression. He doesn't seem the slightest bit taken aback at my anger, which leaves me feeling annoyed and pacified at the same time.

"Yes?" I demand, in a calmer tone this time.

"I've been looking for you. I've got a letter from Castle Dour, your hands only." The courier responds, reaching into his bag, and retrieving a smooth, brown envelope. He hands it to me, and I accept it. As soon as the parcel touches my palm, he whips around, and sprints out of the clearing, back towards Solitude.

I'm left standing in my doorway, unsure of what to make of the man's atypical reaction. I mean, most people confronted with a furious warrior would have been left trembling in their boots. But not him. _Oh well. _I shrug. _Maybe he doesn't know who I am. _

I turn my attention to the envelope, absentmindedly turning it over and over in my hands. I rub my thumb over the thick, sandy-brown paper, that's indicative of the legion. Tullius had implemented it's use after a set of Imperial orders had become so weather damaged, that they had resulted in a shipment of weapons being delivered to Windhelm itself instead of to Winterhold. I snort derisively at the thought. The new paper was much thicker, and ultimately proved to be weather-resistant, compared to the thin white parchment that it replaced.

Finally, I turn my gaze to the red wax seal, stamped with the Imperial Dragon. I break it without a second thought, suddenly eager to read the contents of the letter. I pull it out, and crumple the envelope into a ball, tossing it carelessly to the side as my eyes scan Tullius's impeccable handwriting. I step forward as I read, absentmindedly making my way through the clearing.

_Dragonborn. As you know, neither Ulfric Stormcloak nor I_ _has so far attempted to take military action against the other. With the situation the way it is, tensions in Skyrim are growing by the day. Armed clashes are inevitable at this point. So, I have decided to be the first to attack. The Legion is not content to sit and wait while it's enemies build their strength. _

_You are, to say the least, a very valuable resource to me. Not only are you a peerless warrior, but a symbol to rally those in Skyrim who still stay true to the Empire. I intend to utilize you and your qualities to my advantage. Report to Castle Dour by sundown, soldier. We're going to war._

I look up from the letter, and realize that I'm at the edge of the clearing, right where the rough path begins it's steep slope down the mountainside. I stay there, staring pensively out across Skyrim's landscape, watching nature as it awakes by the early morning light. My eyes linger on Solitude, barely visible in the distance, as I ponder the letter. _Clipped and concise, just like the man himself._

"So." A voice says from behind me. I don't look over; I sense Amaril's presence as he walks forward to stand beside me, his footsteps completely inaudible. His gaze follows mine, as he continues. "You're going to war." He doesn't face me.

I nod thoughtfully, crumpling the letter into a ball, just as I had the envelope.

"It seems so."

The elf sighs. "Do you think that's a good idea?" He asks, still not looking at me.

I let out a bark of laughter at his words, and shake my head. "I don't care, Amaril." I respond, still chuckling slightly.

The elf turns his gaze to me, and glares, his expression one of loathing. "Do you have any idea how many people will die by your hand before this is over?" He snarls, visibly furious for the first time I can remember. "How much blood must flow before your insatiable hunger is satisfied?" I say nothing, and he adds, "Avenging Gabriella won't bring her back to life. And when you do succeed, what will you do afterward? What will you be left with?!"

His words, his tone, they barely register with me. All I can think of is the image of Ulfric Stormcloak and Galmar Stone-Fist, laying in a bloody heap, impaled by two glistening daedric blades. A grin slowly stretches it's way across my face, an expression of undeniable bloodlust. I look up at Amaril, and when he sees me, his face twists, and he whirls around, stalking back through the clearing and into the cabin.

A twinge of something shoots through my stomach at his reaction, but I suppress it viciously. After a few minutes, I turn around as well, and walk back to the house to begin packing.

* * *

My leather boots crunch in the frost-covered grass I make my way towards Solitude's gates. A cold breeze blows my hair back, and I shiver. The days had been slowly getting warmer, signifying that winter was coming to a close, but in Skyrim, that doesn't mean much. In most cases, spring ended up being a less frostbitten extension of winter.

After receiving General Tullius's letter, I had tried to pack, but soon realized that there wasn't anything that I really needed that I couldn't buy in the city. For the most part, anyway. In the end, I'd simply thrown on my armor, slid my blades into their respective sheathes, and grabbed a heavy coin purse, just in case.

I flex my arms, feeling the leather creak slightly under the strain. I'd crafted the armor myself, out of the hides of saber-cats. It didn't differ much from the standard version sold in most shops, except that it was a bit more comprehensive, replacing the tunic with leather pants and so forth, for added protection. The sleeves, however, I left as two sections, namely the pauldrons and the bracers, to allow for maximum mobility. Essentially, it ended up being a combination between nordic leather, and the Brotherhood issue armor. Additionally, I added a detachable hood and cloak to insulate myself from the cold. The entire ensemble is rather menacing.

The city gate comes into sight at the top of a sloping hill, and I speed up my pace slightly. My cloak rustles in the breeze, and as I pass the first pair of guards, their conversation stops. I can feel their eyes on me, but I take no notice of them, and continue walking. The same happens with the second pair I pass; they sink into a dead silence, gazes tracking me as I move through their midst. As I approach the gate itself, the last two soldiers stiffen, and grip their weapons tightly, not sure what to make of my appearance. There is a moment of silence, where nobody moves, nobody speaks. We just stare back at each other, I at them, and they at me, startled and confused at the same time. Finally, I throw off my hood. I hear an intake of breath from behind me.

"Dragonborn…" One of the guards whispers. His voice is a mixture of awe and fear.

One of the two men in front of me grunts in affirmation, but doesn't ease his grip on his war axe. "It's been two years, sir." He begins, haltingly. "There were rumors that you'd died, or gone mad." The man continues, a distrustful tone in his voice, apparently recovered from his initial shock.

I fix the soldier with my unwavering gaze, dark blue eyes boring into his brown ones. "As you can see, I am not dead." I state, calmly and quietly. "And," I continue, never moving my piercing eyes from his, "From what you can tell, I am quite sane."

The guards shift nervously, as if unsure of what to make of my response. After a few seconds, I grin wolfishly, and add, "But, well, you'll have to decide that second point for yourself, won't you?" My expression drops suddenly, back to the piercing look I'd worn before, and I push past the men, heaving open the double doors to the city that would usually have taken two men to budge. Not a single one of the soldiers lifts a hand to stop me.

I stride into Solitude with a purpose, and head straight up the chiseled stone staircase to Castle Dour. Not everyone recognizes me at first; I see quite a few people do a double take at my passing. I pay them no attention, and continue on, my long hair swinging as I move. I leave a trail of murmured exclamations as I go, and I'm strangely relieved when the sharp sound of the castle's doors slamming shut cuts off the rabble from outside.

I step forward slightly, looking around the anteroom of the castle. The silence presses on me like a blanket, and I hurry through the stone-walled structure, feeling uneasy. I walk out of the anteroom, and through a hallway, vaguely remembering where Tullius's war-room was located. I stop moving, as I hear murmuring from several yards in front of me. I prick my ears, and eventually make out two voices.

"Tell me again why I'm wasting my men chasing after a fairy tale?" A male voice asks, the speaker not bothering to hide his condescension.

"If Ulfric gets his hands on that crown, it won't be a fairy tale, it'll be a problem." A female voice responds. It comes across as strained, as if trying very hard to be polite in the face of an enemy.

"Don't you nords put any stock in your own traditions?" The male speaker asks, derisively. "I thought the Moot chose the king. We're backing Elisif. When the Moot meets, they'll do the sensible thing."

"Not everyone's agreed to the Moot. You've been here long enough to know that nords aren't always sensible." The female responds, her tone dangerously close to hostility. "_We_ follow our hearts." She adds, as if denying the man his passion. My eyebrows raise. That means quite a bit, coming from a nord. Passion is essentially equal to honor in Skyrim, and insulting a nord's honor is more likely to get you killed than calling an orc ugly.

"Perhaps…I'm entrusting you with the resources I can spare." The man continues, taking a proverbial step back. "But I'm warning you, if this turns out to be a waste of time and men…"

"It won't be a waste."

I clench my jaw in annoyance at the incompetence of the two. To not be able to look past their differences in the midst of the war…I shake my head to myself, and, satisfied that it's worth a shot, I push open the door in front of me, and enter another room.

I look around. The space feels small, and cramped; an elusion given to it by the dark gray stones that it's constructed out of. In the center of the room stands a long table holding a detailed map of the nine holds of Skyrim, as well as little red and blue flags representing Imperial and Stormcloak troop movements. Two figures are standing on either side of the table. One is that of a woman, tall, broad, and rough looking. The other is that of the General himself. He is a short man, with a lean, tough build, that looks like it has the consistency of frozen jerky. His gray hair is cut short, just like the rest of him: his height, his lips, his speech, everything about the man seems clipped and precise.

"Ah, Dragonborn." He greets me, extending his hand. I shake it, watching the muscles in his arm coil like knotted ropes. "We've been waiting." He gestures towards himself and the woman. I look over in her direction, and she offers me a nod. When Tullius doesn't include her name, I decide to do the introductions myself.

I walk around the table, and reach my hand out towards her. She grips my forearm in the traditional nordic greeting, and I return the gesture, keeping solid eye-contact the entire time. Before I can open my mouth, she answers my unasked question.

"I'm legate Rikke, sir." She states, voice short and business-like. It's not entirely unlike Tullius's. "No need to tell me your name." She continues. "I know who you are." I frown; she's wearing the same unreadable expression that many of the guards had shared. I mentally file the thought away for analyzation at a better time, as the General begins speaking.

"In any other case, I'd put a new recruit like you through a training mission. However…" He stops, looking me up and down, the continues, "I don't think that'll be necessary." Legate Rikke snorts at his words.

_Ah…Discord in the ranks. _I think, taking note of the Legate's near-derision. I decide not to pry into the issue, however. "What are my orders, sir?" I ask, flatly. I remain where I am, leaning against the wall.

Tullius studies me again, brow furrowed, obviously expecting me to stand at attention when addressing him. His gaze remains fixed, but I can tell that his opinion of me has already shifted.

Legate Rikke breaks the silence, apparently unaware of the tension in the room. "Have you ever heard of something called the Jagged Crown?" She asks, from behind the table. Tullius looks up at her. I examine his face as he does so; his lips are pressed thin, and his lower jaw moves with the ever so slight indication of teeth-grinding.

_No, he definitely doesn't like her. And the feeling clearly goes both ways._

"I have." I respond, not giving any indication that I'd perceived more than the obvious. "It's an old nordic legend, about a headdress made of the teeth and scales of fallen dragons, I believe." The legate nods, and opens her mouth to continue, but Tullius quickly cuts her off.

"Yes, it's an old legend." He reiterates, putting just the slightest emphasis on the last word. "It was passed down from High King to High King, and to the people of Skyrim, it symbolizes the concept of rightful succession. And the Legate here thinks she's found it." He adds, with just the smallest hint of scorn in his voice. Unchallengeable, yet undeniably present and purposeful.

Rikke shoots the General a furious glare. "Yes, I've found it." She states, her voice leaving no doubt as to whether she believed her own words or not. Before Tullius can interject, she continues, "Your orders are to rendezvous with the rest of your team at the ancient ruin of Korvanjund."

I nod, and, sick to death of the pair's petty squabbling, I turn around, cloak flapping, and stride out of the castle.

* * *

I make my way towards Korvanjund on foot, deciding that those camped there can wait a day or two for me. By the time night falls, I'm just a bit over halfway there. As the sun sets, I hear a growl from behind me. I whirl around, and draw my swords just in time to impale a leaping saber-cat on their crimson lengths. The animal jerks once, twice, then goes limp. I pull my swords out of it's carcass, and wipe them on the ground, staining the virgin snow dark red.

I look around to see where the beast had come from, and notice a small orverhang in a rock formation about a hundred yards to my right. I walk over to it, and sit down against the back wall, deciding that this is as good a place as any to spend the night. I lay my blades down next to me, and pull half a loaf of bread and some jerky out of various pockets in my cloak. I eat the food slowly, blankly, staring straight into the mind-numbing white expanse of the snow.

When I finish, I lay down on the ground, and wrap my cloak around me. I decide not to light a fire, in case any bandits were within view distance. Not that I couldn't take them; I just want a full night's sleep before tomorrow's mission.

I look up at the stars for a second, just a quick glance. But my gaze drops as as fast as it had risen, however, and I turn to face the wall of the cave, jaw clenched.

I dream again, that night. Of course I do. I always do, now. I dream of cold nights spent stargazing with Gabriella, and I feel like the world isn't worth living in anymore. But then, my dreams turn to Ulfric, and Korvanjund, and blue-clad bodies drenched in their own blood strewn in my wake. I grasp onto that image, clutching it, pulling myself up form the mire of my grief. I can hear Amaril's voice in the back of my mind, whispering, pleading. _Let go, Daanik. Let go…_

But, I can't. I won't. A small smile flickers across my lips, as I let the bloody scene take me over. The cold of my surroundings suddenly seems to flood through me, and for once, I sleep peacefully.

**As always, reviews are greatly appreciated. They encourage me to write more :) But, I'm about to drop, so, goodnight Fanfiction. I wish you better sleep than Daanik's been getting. Oh, also, I'd like another review or too before I post the next chapter. **


	4. Power

**I am a terrible, terrible person, I know. It's been over a month, and I apologize for that, from the bottom of my heart. That is, if anyone is still reading this. I'm currently on vacation, and have a lot more time to update regularly. So, without further ado, enjoy chapter four. If you can still remember the plot, that is :P**

Chapter 4

The next morning, after a paltry breakfast of bread and cheese, I continue on my way to Korvanjund. As I walk, the slight inkling of spring that had permeated the chilly air for the last week disappears entirely. Snow begins to fall, and the farther east I walk, the thicker the flurries become, until I'm forced to wrap my cloak around my body in an attempt to ward off the blizzard. I squint through the storm, as icy crystals pelt my face, and the wind around me builds itself up into a howl. My feet sink deeper and deeper into the thickening snow, until it reaches up to my knees, and the windblown drifts are as tall as I am. I curse under my breath, and forge on, accepting and subsequently ignoring the icy sting.

As the wind whistles in my ears, I'm reminded of another time that I'd been caught in a snowstorm, with Gabriella. My lips tighten, and a scowl etches across my features, as I instinctually reject the emotional aspect of the memory. Remaining guarded, my thoughts turn to the events of the instance, and suddenly, a vicious grin spreads across my face, replacing the scowl as I remember what exactly had occurred. I'd used a shout to clear the sky, and my use of the Voice had attracted a challenger.

I throw off my hood, and grip my blades in anticipation of the imminent fight. I let the snow fall freely on my face, searing and freezing at the same time. I draw both swords, gradually, slowly, savoring the sound of the honed metal whining against it's rough sheathe. The tips of the blades sink infinitesimally into the snow, with almost no resistance, as I lower my arms, and raise my face to the sky. I suck in a deep breath of the cold, biting air, part my lips, and shout at the sky, building and releasing the Thu'um with a practiced ease.

"LOK VAH KOOR!" I roar. My words are drowned out by a deafening boom, as a shockwave ripples out of me, blasting the trees, flinging snow into the air, and shredding the clouds above into nothingness. The wind stops abruptly, as does the snow, and I squint at the sudden light reflecting off the crystalline blanket that covers the ground.

As my eyes adjust, I look around, staring intently at all corners of the horizon, hoping for a response. Seconds pass. Then, minutes. Regardless, I remain motionless. Finally, after fifteen minutes, I give up, my mood darkened by the failure. Scowling, I continue on my way.

Suddenly, a roar tears through the previously silent tundra. The echoes of the bone chilling challenge slowly fade, and a feral smile stretches slowly across my face. I shift from foot-to-foot in anticipation, eagerly awaiting the creature like a child awaits a present on it's name-day. I draw my blades without any conscious prompting, and grunt in satisfaction at my body's natural battle-tendencies.

Just as the last vestiges of the beat's first call fade into nothingness, it roars again, far louder this time. It's getting close. My hands tighten around the hilts of my blades, and with the action, a blast of wind strikes my face, and a tremendous rushing sound reaches my ears as a massive, copper-red scaled dragon soars directly over my head. I'm forced to duck as it turns sharply, lashing out at my much smaller form with it's mace-like tail. Through the deafening sound of it's movement, I make out the legendary beast's gravelly challenge.

"Krif voth ahkrin, Dovahkiin!" It bellows, as it increases the distance between us in order to make another pass. "Fight well!"

"I intend to." I mutter.

I brace my feet in the snowy ground as best I can, and draw in a deep breath, preparing to knock the dragon out of the sky. Suddenly, without warning, I hear a tremendous thud, and the ground beneath me shakes. I'm just barely able to keep my balance. Staggering, I whip my head around, and my eyes widen. Fuck. The muscles in my leg coil as I leap out of the way of the roaring inferno, a blazing pillar of flame emitting from the maw of a second dragon.

I didn't even notice it's arrival. I curse, berating myself for the slip. Climbing to my feet in a flash, I sprint around the second creature's green-scaled hide, trying to escape it's snapping jaws, while simultaneously searching for it's...partner? Brother? Friend? The questioning thought is forced from my mind as I narrowly avoid being clipped by the dragon's massive wing. In a moment of inspiration, I dart underneath it's belly, dodging it's stamping feet and razor claws. With a frustrated growl, the enormous creature leaps into the air, protecting it's scale-less underside. The sheer force of the gust of air that it's wings force down is enough to knock me back onto the ground. Stunned, I see a flicker of movement out of the corner of my eye, and roll out of the way just in time to see the snow where I'd previously been sprawled melt, and the ground beneath it burn from the sheer heat of the copper dragon's fire breath.

Shaking my head to clear it, I leap to my feet, turning around in a circle, in the middle of the field, desperately trying to keep both dragons in my field of vision. They begin to pick up their pace, circling faster and faster, ducking and weaving and arching, waiting for me to let my guard down. My head whips around with each scaly flash, and my adrenaline builds, working me up into a fevered frenzy, as I turn my head around, back and forth, desperately, as the creatures move faster, faster, faster.

And then, I stop. I blink once, slowly, as I feel a deep rumbling in my chest. With the feeling, a barely audible chanting reaches my ears, and the wind picks up, whistling across the ict tundra, stabbing my skin with it's sheer coldness. An eery calm pervades my senses, as I reach my third stage of battle.

About three months after Gabriella's death, I'd realized that I couldn't control my shouting anymore. Not correctly, anyway. It didn't always come when bidden, but also began to explode out of me of it's own accord. Every time that I'd experience any extreme of emotion, typically anger, the Thu'um seeped into my voice, causing quakes, gales, or even fire. I assume that this had started when I incinerated Gabriella's killer, without actually uttering the words to the fire breath shout.

My lack of control didn't extend to only shouting, however. It pertained to everything, every part of my life; this carelessness opened me up to new kinds of ferocity that I could never have imagined myself capable of- Quickly, I'd learned to stop trying to control myself, and simply let go.

The end result was what had, so far, extended into a three-stage cycle, which Amaril had dubbed my "Stages of Battle". It began with blood lust, which was very near my constant state at this point. I'd slip into the second stage while engaged in any fight that lasted for longer than fifteen seconds. This is the stage that Odhaving had observed me in, before giving my swords their names. It in, I become a machine, my body acting acting on it's own, hacking, slashing, killing, whilst I look on through a red haze.

The third and final stage is the stage of power. I don't quite understand this one. However, my best guess is that it is as close to feeling like a dragon as I'll ever know. It's as if the ferocity of the second state unlocks some sort of u known, primal reserve of Dragonborn power within me. My Thu'um, grows to an incredible strength, and actual physical manifestations of power make themselves known, such as the current chanting, or the sharp, eery wind.

For all I know, there could be more than three stages to this whole concept. I have no idea, however. No fight I've been in has ever made it past the third stage.

Without a second thought, I stop turning. I blink again, and my vision sharpens. I notice and encode every hint of movement, every subtle shadow in my field of vision. My ears twitch, as the chanting grows louder. My eyes close once more, as fire fills my chest. It grows in heat, flowing through my limbs and making my blood boil. My head spins with the sudden rush of raw power, and it pushes at my body, threatening to tear it apart at the seams. It grows hotter and hotter, filling my esophagus, ready, willing, oh so willing to burst through my throat and out of my mouth. And, finally, with a slow, controlled smile, I release it.

My midnight eyes snap open, and my smile fades, as I whisper a single, mono-syllabic word.

"Strun."

And with a small, quiet sigh, I behold the effects.

Clouds sweep across the sky, thick, roiling black masses that blot out the sun within seconds. They twist and coil, moving circularly, forming essentially the shape of an upside-down funnel: wide at the bottom, and gradually narrowing towards the top. Even at the apex of the storm, not a single ray of light can be seen shining through. The previously sunny day is now as dark as the blackest night. A deep, rolling thunderclap crashes through the air like an avalanche, making my teeth vibrate in my skull with it's intensity. The sound extends for an entire minute, before slowly receding. The clouds begin to spiral, in an almost uniform fashion. Some bands move faster than others, yet they're all moving in the same direction, smoothly turning, slowly picking up speed.

The two dragons falter in midair, and then stop completely, hovering in confusion. Calmly, I oberve them as their great, scaly heads whip back and forth, trying to make sense of the rapidly worsening weather conditions. The copper-scaled creature roars something in the dragon tongue, but I can't make out his exact words. His green-scaled brother opens his maw to formulate a response, but is cut short.

A low keening sound suddenly sweeps across the tundra. Both dragons stiffen at it's arrival, and I note it with a clear, affirmative acceptance. Second by second, the sound rises in pitch, whistling in my ears, until gradually, the truth dawns on the usually unshakable beats: the sound is wind, a powerful, destructive gale that's building, becoming stronger and more ferocious with each passing moment. The dragons' wings strain against the force, as the whistling intensifies, sweeping tiny whirlwinds of snow off of the ground and into the air. I ignore the sting of the icy barrage, and continue watching my enemies' mental progression. With a visible jolt, the copper beast, clearly the superior specimen, connects the sudden storm with me. He whips his head around to face his would-be prey, and snarls in fury. He arches his neck, and inhales deeply, preparing to release a fireball in my direction.

Big mistake. I smirk, slightly.

Without warning, without any form of indication, the gale explodes. It's force multiplies exceptionally, slamming into both dragons like the side of a mountain. The fireball itself is flung back, and explodes, engulfing it's executor in a cocoon of flames. The dragon shrieks in agony as the scales around it's snout, neck, and shoulders melt, dripping off his body, fusing to his skin, and effectively blinding him. The force of the wind picks up even more, and slowly, the dragons begin to move. Unwillingly, they're forced to follow the circular flow of the thick, black vortex. They join the cycle, spinning faster and faster, shrieking and roaring in fury and fear, until they're no more than a blur, whirling around the edges of the tempest ad the wind continue to build, tearing trees up by the roots. Gusts of snow are thrown into the air, surrounding the clearing containing myself and the beasts in a veritable hurricane of ice. The frozen crystals gradually make their way all the way up to the dragons' altitude, where they burrow into any exposed piece of skin, boring between scales, shredding flesh like tiny knives.

And finally, as the wind reaches a deafening crescendo, the structure of the storm collapses. The circle breaks, each current tearing itself off from the main flow with a tremendous force. The winged beasts are blasted back and forth, tossed around the vortex like rag dolls. I hear a sickening snap over the sound of the chaos, and an agonized shriek, as the right wing of the green dragon is snapped and dislocated. The copper beast's appendages soon follow suit, the fragile bones breaking like matchsticks before the mighty wind.

And finally as if the razor snow and brutal winds haven't been enough, a bolt of lightning arcs down from the epicenter of the funnel. I shield my eyes from the blinding flash, but I'm just barely too late. For the briefest of moments, I'm aware of a static image, an imprint of the dragons' suspended in midair, bruised, bloody, and broken, illuminated by angry white light.

And then, just as quickly as it had begun, the storm dies down. The gales lessen, and after about a minute, they become too weak to support the broken bodies of the dragons. I watch, impassively, as the two mighty creatures begin their descent, spiraling helplessly, before plowing into the ground with an earth-shattering crash. Along with the sounds of their impact come the sickly indicators of breaking bones; sharp snaps, and stomach-churning crunches. The two bodies lay still, as the snow settles.

Just as I'm about to turn away,the copper dragon stirs. I watch, as with a titanic effort, it raises it's majestic head, one last time. It's neck shakes with the effort, but it's one remaining eye is burning with emotion. For a second, I look deeply into the smoldering golden orb. In it's depths, I recognize ambition, and a hunger for power, but also a deep-seated sense of pride, that remains even in defeat. It blinks, once, and it's expression changes dramatically. The look it gives me is full of pity.

Surprise, followed quickly by shame and fury boil up within me. Suddenly, I see red, and my arm moves without prompting. Nax flashes once as it flies through the air, before striking the dragon in the forehead with an audible thump. The beast collapses instantaneously, and it's blood stains the snow beneath it a dark crimson.

My heart pounds in my chest, and I bend over, panting heavily, even thought I had barely exerted myself at all. The whiteness of the snow burns my corneas, as the dragon's serene, yet accusing stare swims in my vision. Suddenly, I feel a hand on my shoulder, and I whirl around, lashing out wildly with my remaining sword. It swings harmlessly through the air, however, as whoever had touched me leaps back.

"What if that had been someone besides me?" Amaril growls at me, crouching in the snow. He stands up, and brushes the white crystals off of his leather pants. He looks up at me, his golden eyes sharp and angry.

I ignore his gaze. "Then they would have been monumentally shorter." I hiss, slamming Bahlok back into it's sheathe, and stalking over to the two massive corpses of the dragons. I barely take notice as their scales begin to disintegrate. The familiar feeling of connectivity, of being filled with the millennia of knowledge held within the souls of both dragons does nothing to phase me, as I wrench Nax out of the skull of the copper beast. I wrinkle my nose at the metallic smell, as tiny bits of blood and gore are torn free with the blade. Within seconds, however, they're gone, as they burn away along with the rest of the corpse. I turn back to the elf. He's shaking his head, almost mournfully.

"Don't you see what's happening, Daanik?" He whispers.

I grit my teeth in anger, and swipe Nax's blade along the snow to clean it. "What, pray tell, is happening, Amaril?" I spit, furiously.

He looks up at me, eyes strangely soft. "Look at yourself." He says, softly, gesturing in my direction. "You're so, so angry, Daanik. So full of hate." The last phrase is whispered, almost to himself. Then he continues, "I know it doesn't seem as such from your own perspective, but imagine how the world sees you."

He steps closer, and I tense, eyes wide, enraptured by the elf's golden gaze. "You know the look. You've seen it." He lowers his voice, until it's barely more than a whisper. "The fear, the pain, and ultimately, the pity your victims feel for you." He takes another step closer, until we're inches apart. "The sympathy, the empathy they have towards such a wretched creature. Through all of their own pain, they see you for who you are. They don't hate you. They can't. All they feel is pity. Pity, for a man so very far gone."

As his golden gaze bores into me, I feel my mind trying desperately to rationalize my actions to myself, to prove Amaril and his biting words wrong. But deep down, I know they ring true. As I come to this conclusion, however, my mind stops. It shuts down, and I turn, and run. Unconsciously, I mouth the words to whirlwind sprint, and take off across the tundra.

But I can't escape part of my own consciousness. The elf's last call to me echoes in my mind.

"Something is wrong, Dragonborn, when the Dovah pity their slayer."

**Please, please, PLEASE don't forget to review :) It motivates me. Also, I promise that chapter five will actually continue the plot. Thanks for reading!**


	5. The Core

**Updated twice in two days; hell fucking yes :D I'm starting on the next chapter as you read this. With that said, enjoy this one, with the knowledge that you won't have to wait another month for the next installment ;) Review!**

Chapter 5

I come to a halt roughly ten miles east of the scene of my battle with the two dragons. Originally, I had been reeling, lost in a sea of doubt and indecision that Amaril's words had conjured. However, as I'd sped across Skyrim's tundra, into a dark, pine forest, I'd regained control of my emotions relatively quickly. As the icy wind blasted my face, so too did the freezing walls around my psyche repair themselves, and become whole once more. Now, shut off from the mire of the world, my steel resolve returns to me, and I continue on my way to Korvanjund.

The ancient ruin comes into sight as I reach the crest of a small hill. Between the trees obstructing my view, I can just make out flashes of hard, dark gray stone set into the ground, forming a makeshift valley, roughly a mile ahead of me. The atypical architecture of the ruin gives me a second's pause, before I continue on my way. My instructions from Solitude had been to rendezvous with a team of Imperial soldiers, led by Legate Rikke. The orders had annoyed me, for two reasons; the first being the fact that they were what they were, namely, orders. The second, was that the thought of working as an underling, and in a team at that, made me bristle. The entire concept of human contact puts me on edge. I grudgingly accept the my plight, however, and look around for any indication of an Imperial camp.

A voice reaches my ears, and I look over to where it originated.

"It's you! From Helgen!" A rough, nord voice calls in delight. I look over, to see a brown-haired, ruggedly built man jogging in my direction. I recognize him, and after a few seconds, I'm able to place his name.

_Hadvar_.

The large man slows down as he approaches me, grinning widely. His smile falters slightly at my expression, but he recovers quickly. His eyes remain wary, however, beneath his boyish grin. My understanding of the man deepens, as my opinion regarding his intellect changes.

"It's good to see you." He rumbles, clapping me on the shoulder with a heavy hand. I tense, but he doesn't seem to notice. "Come on, let me introduce you to the rest of the team."

He turns away, and walks back from where he came, his heavy footsteps leaving deep prints in the snow. I suppress a derisive snort; the man moves as if he were made of stone. After a moment, I follow him, treading lightly across the frozen ground, leaving barely any trace of my passing, compared to Hadvar's tramping gait.

"I'm glad you made it." He calls over his shoulder, as we walk. "We've been waiting for two days. The Legate has been grumbling this entire time. She sent word that if you didn't show up today, she'd have us storm the ruin without you." I offer no response, as none seems required. He continues, "Either way, I'm pleased she waited. I don't like the place, myself." I notice him shiver, slightly. "Feels wrong, to me." The large man shakes himself, then continues. "Anyway, what kept you?"

I shrug, noncommittally, but he doesn't notice, as he's still leading me towards wherever the rest of the soldiers are camped.

"Dragons." I grunt, giving the shortest answer possible, hoping to end the conversation. To my annoyance, Hadvar doesn't pick up on the hint.

"Dragons? Plural?" He replies, the astonishment clear in his voice. I grunt in affirmation, and he whistles. Thankfully, however, he doesn't continue the conversation.

We walk for about another minute, circling the ruin until it lies to the west of us. Between the trees, I notice a flash of movement, quickly followed by the sound of a horse. I tense, but Hadvar remains relaxed.

"Hail!" He calls, and raises his hand.

After a moment, a second voice answers him. "Ah, Hadvar. I'm almost disappointed you're not a Stormcloak." I hear the sound of hooves stamping in the snow, and a tall, grey warhorse trots towards us from between the trees. It nickers softly, and tosses it's head, it's long, pale mane flowing magnificently. My eyebrows raise in appreciation of the fine specimen. My gaze travels up towards the stallion's rider. Atop his back sits a young, tough-looking wood elf. His skin is tan, the color of sand, with sculpted lips and high cheekbones. He tosses his long, thick brown hair, and grins at us, revealing alabaster teeth. My gaze travels up to meet his dark eyes. They have a mischievous, almost impish quality. They shine with an obvious cleverness, and his whole appearance leaves me feeling slightly bemused.

He's very much a wood elf. I note dryly, as I notice the longbow slung across his back.

"Aye, I know how you feel." Hadvar replies ruefully. "But don't fret, Daenlin, we'll all have more than our fair share of blood to shed soon enough."

The bosmer nods, then fixes his sharp gaze on me. "Who's your friend, Hadvar?" He asks, giving me a secret, mischievous smile. I can't decide whether I like him or not. I remain impassive, as Hadvar introduces me.

The large man claps me on the shoulder, again, and I clench my jaw to keep myself from breaking his tree-trunk of an arm. "This is Daanik, the soldier we've been waiting on for two days." He says, with a laugh.

Daenlin doesn't move his eyes from me, and I meet his stare, my midnight eyes unwavering.

"Ah." He murmurs. "Good to meet you, Dragonborn."

His gaze isn't challenging, but appraising, judging. I hold it for a few moments, while Hadvar looks on, completely unaware of the tension. Finally, the elf looks away.

"Come." He says, pulling on his horse's reigns, turning the beast around. "The camp is just through these trees."

Hadvar follows without a word, and I emulate him, attempting to understand the chain of command in the squadron. I let go of the thought, however, assuming that the answer will present itself once we reach the camp.

After no more than a couple of yards, we breach the tree line, and walk into a small clearing. The sounds of activity fill the air; the clanging of a hammer on steel, the whinnying of horses, the crackling of fire, and the bustle of movement. I scan the encampment. Most of the soldiers are nord men, but there are a relatively large number of imperials, and women, among the armed. All of them, including Hadvar and Daenlin, are outfitted with standard Legion weapons and armor. I had declined a uniform, to the utmost annoyance of the outfitter, preferring to wear my leather ensemble. The man had seemed gravely insulted, as he'd gone about sharpening Bahlok and Nax for me.

At closer inspection, however, I notice that both Daenlin and Hadvar's armor differs slightly from that of the other soldiers. The red pauldrons are a deeper crimson, and the brown body of the gear is a shade darker than that of the average imperial armor. Before I can ask about the difference, however, Hadvar speaks.

"Well, this is it. The Pale Imperial camp." He motions towards a large tent at the far end of the clearing. "Come, let me introduce you to the rest of the core."

"The core?" I ask, following the large man as he strides towards the makeshift structure. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice the wood elf dismount, and tie his horse's reigns to a post at the edge of the camp.

"Aye." The nord answers. "Not familiar with the structure of the Legion, are you?" He looks back, and I shake my head in answer. "Ah, no matter. I'll explain it to you."

"Please do." I mutter under my breath, but he doesn't hear me.

"Once anyone joins the legion, they're labeled as a backup soldier." He explains, as we reach the tent. "They're assigned, in random groups, to support the cores of a team. Those cores are made up of more experienced soldiers, such as Daenlin, and myself." He holds open the flap of the canvas structure, and motions for me to enter. I do so, blinking as my eyes adjust to the dark interior.

"Cores are just what their name suggests, namely, the center of a regiment. They can lead a battalion, or act as a separate team on their own."

Hadvar motions around the interior of the tent, and I make out two other figures standing in the tent with us.

"Each core is well balanced, in it's skill sets. For example, I'm all heavy armor, with a claymore. I'm strong, but slow. Daenlin makes up for that; he's our resident archer. Then we have Camilla, our healer and ice-Mage." He points to a tall, slender imperial woman, who's leaning over an enchanting table. She straightens up from her position, and smiles warmly at me. I return the greeting with a nod. Hadvar continues, his voice alight with humor. "And this scumbag Breton is our very own spell-sword." I glance over to the other corner of the tent, to a man dressed in ebony armor, running a whetstone across his black sword. At Hadvar's words, he glances up with a wide grin.

"Scumbag, you say?" He drawls, and my eyes widen in surprise and recognition. "Better malicious than thick, you great oaf!" He glances quickly in my direction, then does a double take.

"Daanik?" He demands, leaping up from the bench he'd been occupying. "Is that you?"

"Kastus!" I exclaim, momentarily stunned.

A wide grin stretches across the Breton's face, as our respective realizations are confirmed. He strides forward, and embraces me roughly. My muscles tense and coil dramatically for a moment, before I awkwardly hug him back. He pulls away, eyes still full of excitement.

"It's been too long, you bloody nord." He says, his eyes directly level with mine. He's tall, for a Breton; mirroring my six feet. A grin, a real smile stretches across my face, untainted by any malicious intent, for the first time I can remember in the last two years. The man steps back, and examines me, eyebrows raised.

He whistles. "Well, you've grown, haven't you?" He states, eyeing my musculature. He lashes out, punching me in the shoulder. The sudden movement startles me, and it's all I can do to keep from catching his fist in my palm. "You almost look like a real nord now, eh?" He laughs, loudly.

I smile tightly, still on edge from his well-intentioned blow. Kastus notices my expression, and gives me a questioning look, but before he can voice his thoughts, Daenlin pushes back the opening of the tent.

"Why is it always so damn dark in here?" He mutters, irritably.

"Because, you can't mount torches on canvas, Daenlin." Hadvar rumbles, pronouncing each word slowly, exaggerating his tone, as if speaking to a child.

The elf gives him a dirty look. "Shove your face into a Khajit's arse, nord." He grumbles.

Camilla snorts, and Kastus laughs. I raise an eyebrow, amused, nevertheless.

Hadvar chuckles, deep and low. "I'll settle for your sister's, but I appreciate the offer."

The Breton roars in laughter, and Camilla joins him, while the Bosmer's face reddens. I smile, slightly, enjoying that the man was being taken down a peg. After a moment, he joins the laughter, however. I'm impressed by their camaraderie.

_They must make quite a well-oiled team in battle. _Amaril's voice muses from inside my skull.

I grunt in assent, preferring to focus on the physical world itself, rather than the musings of my own twisted subconscious.

_Who are you replacing, I wonder? _The elf asks, his tone malicious.

_What are you talking about?_ I snap. But he doesn't answer.

I turn my attention back to the present, and find that everyone inside the tent is staring at me. Kastus's gaze is inquisitive, and Camilla looks worried. Daenlin's is shrewd, almost pleased, while Hadvar's is simply confused. I realize that someone must have spoken to me.

"I'm sorry. My mind was elsewhere." I state calmly.

The members of the core all shoot each other quick glances. The other members of the core, I think, correcting myself. Then, mercifully, Kastus breaks the silence.

"Hadvar inquired as to your physical state, Daanik. Are you tired?"

I shake my head in response.

"Good." The burly nord rumbles. He hefts an immense sword, and pushes open the tent's opening. "We attack Korvanjund in an hour."

The rest of the core nods, and begin their preparation, assembling potions, or strapping on armor. I sense Kastus's gaze on me, but before he has the chance to speak, I stride out after Hadvar. Again, the clanging of the blacksmith sounds in my ears, and I wonder how the tent could have muffled such a piercing noise. Uncomfortable with the amount of activity around me, I continue walking, until I reach the edge of the camp, and then a bit farther, until I come to a small outcropping of rock. I crouch down on it, my hands playing with the bleak stone face, as I survey the ancient Nordic ruin spread out before me.

The feral smile returns to my lips, as I think of all the Stormcloak blood I'm about to spill.

* * *

I hear a snap from behind me, and clench my teeth in annoyance. Hadvar curses, then mutters an apology, as his tramping boots find yet another obstacle to our required silence. Kastus snickers at his clumsiness. Camilla jabs him in the side with her elbow, and he yelps, much to the rest of the core's amusement. I close my eyes in frustration, and growl under my breath, my annoyance seeping through to the surface. No one notices, however, and we continue sneaking through the trees behind Daenlin. Suddenly, the elf holds up his hand, and we all pause. Hadvar signals to the dozen or so Legionnaires behind him, and they stop as well. My ears twitch at what I assume is the same noise the scout had noticed. I tighten my grip on my blades, ready to draw them at a moment's notice. After a few seconds, a raccoon skitters across our path, eyes wide and curious. The group relaxes, and I hear Camilla's audible exhalation from behind me. Daenlin begins to move again, and the rest of us follow.

We continue on this way for a rough ten minutes, but encounter no obstacles. My annoyance grows with each passing second, and I have to stop myself multiple times from simply standing up and whirlwind sprinting head first into the impending battle.

_Why are you stopping yourself_? Amaril asks snidely from inside my head.

I groan inwardly at his arrival. _Because, it's an important aspect to being part of a team, elf. _I hiss. The words sound hollow, though, even to me.

The elf lets out a bark of laughter. _And since when have you been a team-player, Dragonborn?_ He sneers. _Stop pretending to be something you're not. Go on; get up, finish the fight for them. Call Odhaving, your old friend. I'm sure he won't pity you, like those other dragons did. Bahlok and Nax indeed._ He snorts, derisively. _You're no more than a man who can't come to terms with his lot in life._

I stand up abruptly, and my hands grasp the hilts of my blades so tightly that the knuckles turn white. Luckily, we seem to have reached our destination, and the rest of our battalion rises as well. Their movements distract me, and I'm able to calm myself, forcing the red haze surrounding my mind back into the depths of my subconscious. I turn my gaze to Hadvar, as he walks to the front of the group, and addresses us.

"Alright, men, this is it." He whispers, his voice hushed. "You ready to prove yourselves worthy to wear the Legion's colors?" He asks, grinning at the soldiers in the back.

A chorus of hushed affirmations rises from behind me, and the burly nord commander nods in approval.

"Alright, then. Daenlin, Camilla, you pick off the archers. The rest of you," Hadvar says, motioning to Kastus, myself, and the backup soldiers, "Follow up on foot once you're in no threat from any ranged attacks." Kastus nods in agreement. I, however, allow myself a small smirk. The very idea of me hanging back until the coast is clear is laughable.

"Alright." He finishes. "For the Emperor!"

Daenlin and Camilla make their move. And, before anyone can stop me, I follow, pushing to the front of the battalion and past the tree line, so that the ruin is in plain view. Quickly, I analyze the defenses. Six archers, two on the left and right, and two in the back, as well as an unknown number of soldiers in the canyon itself. I grin in anticipation, before inhaling a deep breath, and shouting.

"WULD NA KEST!" I bellow, and with a thunderous report, I tear across the snowy ground, towards the first archer. He doesn't even see me coming, as I hold my left arm out to the side, decapitating the man, as I continue to move. The soldier behind him notices me, but too late. His eyes dilate in fear, as he too meets his end by Bahlok's razor bite.

Abruptly, I reach the far right corner of the surface of the canyon, and stop the shout. I turn to face the two archers at the back of the setup, and bare my teeth in a snarl. They fumble with their arrows, and I sprint towards them, without the aid of the shout, this time. The first man manages to loose a projectile at me, which I catch on my blade, before plunging both of my swords into his chest, and wrenching them out with a sickening tearing sound.

I turn my gaze to the remaining two archers, now stationed on my right. I hear a straining sound, as they draws their bows, seconds away from firing. With not enough time to get to them physically, I suck in another deep breath, and release an earth-shattering Thu'um.

"FUS RO DAH!" I roar, and an explosion of force knocks both soldiers into the air. They hit the ground with sickening impacts. Neither moves from where they landed.

I shout again, sprinting towards the edge of the canyon, before launching myself into the air with a tremendous leap. I soar through the sky, clearing the entire length of the canyon, before landing on the other side, near the intended entrance. Slowly, I straighten up, and walk calmly down the steps. Below me, I see roughly fifteen soldiers milling about, before they organize themselves, and charge in my direction.

I don't even blink, as the first one approaches me. He swings a massive war hammer, and as he raises his arms high above his head, my the slight hook at the tip of my blade slices across his neck. Blood spurts, and he gurgles once, before falling to the side. The next soldier swings a mace, again, raising the weapon high. I shake my head slightly, almost amused, as I lash out with my foot, kicking him in the chest. I feel his sternum crack, and he gasps for air, before he falls back down the steps. I'm vaguely aware of the sound of his neck breaking, as the next soldier charges. This man is smarter; swiping at my side with his long sword. I parry the blow with my left hand, and remove his sword arm with my right. He howls in agony, clutching the stump, before falling to the ground. I leave him to bleed out, focusing on the next two enemies. This pair is more prepared than the previous soldier. Both wield massive battle-axes. They swing them at me from either side, at the same time, making the respective blows difficult to block. I crouch down low, hearing the heavy blades as they whistle over my head, and lash out at the soldiers' knees with my own weapons. They shriek, as they fall.

This continues on for about five minutes in all. Soldiers run at me, either individually or in pairs, and are struck down without fail. Finally, as the last man falls to the deadly bite of my blades, I turn around, taking in the destruction I've caused. The canyon is littered with corpses, and the ground is more red than white. I glance to the top of the stairs, watching, as the raft of the battalion descends to join me, eyes wide. Kastus meets my gaze for a second, before looking away. The same happens with Camilla and Hadvar. And still, I look on, fixing them all with my unwavering blue gaze. Only Daenlin looks at me for more than a second.

"Now I know why you're on the team." He mutters.

I snort, and follow him, then push past him and the others as we walk towards the door to the ruin. I sheathe my blades, and brace myself against the two iron slabs. The muscles in my shoulders flex and coil as I heave with all my might.

And, with a mighty boom, I throw open the doors to Korvanjund. I step into the impenetrable darkness, and don't look back.

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	6. Korvanjund

**Finally, I'm getting back into the swing of things. Usually, this is where I'd thank people for their reviews, but, alas, I have none to refer to. So, with that thought in mind, enjoy chapter six :)**

Chapter 6

The echoes of the opening door continue deep into the mouth of the ruin, eerily retreating until they fade into nothingness. A strangely warm draft flows from the dark depths, and the members of the battalion shiver. It feels...alive.

I look around, and see my hidden unease reflected on the faces of those around me. They stare into the pitch-black hole before us, waiting for someone to give the order to enter. Just as I'm about to step forward, Camilla surprises me by stepping forward briskly.

"Well come on, then." She prompts. She flicks her right wrist, and a handful of flame pops into existence in her palm. "I'll light the way." Her soft voice is deceptive; I hear an undercurrent of steel in her words. Abruptly, I'm reminded of Astrid. I move to stand next to her, and she gives me a small smile. I look away, back at the rest of the regiment. "It's just a crypt." She says, turning away from me, and addressing the soldiers. They murmur amongst themselves, and Hadvar and Kastus step up to join us.

"Come on, you milk drinkers." The nord growls. "We have a job to do. Remember that before you run home with your tails between your legs, at the sight of some old bones." The soldiers shift uneasily, but begin to approach the entrance.

Disgust wells up inside me at their cowardice, and I whip around, and stalk into the ruin, cloak flapping. Camilla follows close behind, lighting the way as best she can. After a few yards, I notice a sconce on the wall, and remove it's torch. Wordlessly, I hold it out to the Imperial mage, who promptly lights it with the flame from her palm.

"Pick up any torches you find." I state quietly. The soldiers nod in assent. I look around for Hadvar, and notice him behind Camilla. The burly man looks uneasy in the tomb, and seems content to follow my lead. The muscles in my jaw clench in frustration, but I don't say anything. As I scan the troops behind me, a thought occurs to me.

"Where is Daenlin?" I ask Camilla quietly.

She responds in turn, meeting my gaze unwaveringly. A small part of me is impressed. "He's outside. He and his arrows are at a disadvantage in these close quarters." She gestures vaguely around the tunnel. "He's there to make sure that we're not hemmed in by any enemy troops from behind."

I nod, and turn around, continuing through the crypt. I keep my face impassive, but internally, my interest is piqued. The way she reacted to my...well, my slaughtering of the Stormcloaks outside was unique. She was neither horrified, nor did she pity me. She took what had occurred in stride. I realize that, against my better judgement, I admire the woman.

Suddenly, a thought occurs to me. Something that Amaril had said. Quietly, I tilt my head toward's Camilla's.

"Who did I replace?" I ask, simply.

She doesn't answer for a moment. I'm tempted to look back, but I force myself to keep my gaze fixed on the corpses lining the small alcoves within the walls of the crypt, should one wake from it's catatonic state. After a minute, the woman responds.

"My brother, Rallus." She whispers, voice tight with emotion. "We lost him in an ambush, two weeks ago." She stops for a moment, and I hear her deep intake of breath, and then a long, slow exhalation. When she speaks again, her voice is calmer. "He was a brawler, like you. He carried a sword, and a mace, though, rather than two blades."

"I'm a brawler, then?" I ask. The words feel strange, foreign in my mouth. They roll awkwardly off my tongue, and I realize how long it's been since I've had a real conversation.

Again, a moment passes before the woman responds, and this time, I do look back. Her dark eyes are fixed on me, burning, yet thoughtful. I almost shiver. It's the same look Amaril gives me; as if he's staring directly past my outer facade, deep into the innermost parts of my being. In retrospect, it's not something that should surprise me about the elf. He's a part of my consciousness; it's not overly strange that he sees through me. But this woman...she blows past my defenses as if they're nothing.

"I'm not sure what you are." She murmurs. I barely hear her. I'm not sure whether she herself is aware that she's spoken. I look away, uncomfortable, and continue scanning for potential attackers.

Suddenly, Kastus lets out a loud curse. I turn, to see him struggling, as a rotten, skeletal hand wraps itself around his arm. A gurgled hiss echoes through the narrow tunnel, and two bright, icy blue pinpricks of light appear in the darkness of the alcove. Before the draugr has a chance to crawl out, however, I lash out with my right hand, severing it's wrist. The creature growls in fury, but is quickly silenced as Kastus releases a stream of fire from his left hand into it's face. The smell of burning, decomposed flesh fills the air. One of the soldiers gags, while some mutter prayers to the Divines.

"By the Gods..." One murmurs. "I didn't sign up for this." He looks around at the members of the core, then at his fellows, daring someone to challenge him. No one takes notice, however, and he slumps in defeat, lacking the courage to desert.

"That was a draugr." Hadvar states. His voice is calm, to his benefit, but I can see that he is shaken. "Nothing more than old bones and flesh." Without any further explanation, he turns around, and gestures for Camilla and I to lead the way further into the ruin.

I glance back at the imperial woman, curious of her reaction to the undead denizen. She seems no worse for wear, as if used to the creatures. My brow furrows, and I look away quickly, hoping she didn't see me, so I wouldn't have to explain my glance.

No such luck.

"What is it?" She murmurs. The light from our respective flames flickers off the rough stone walls, making the situation seem even more eery.

"You weren't afraid." I reply, after a moment.

"Neither were you." She shoots back. I almost laugh. After pause, she relents however, and continues. "I was a member of the Synod, in Cyrodiil, before I joined the Legion. Our purpose is to collect magical artifacts from all corners of Tamriel." She pauses for a moment, and I can almost hear the shrug in her voice. "So, I'm used to dungeons, and their inhabitants. The draugr are just blue-eyed zombies, as far as I'm concerned."

I say nothing, and we continue walking.

After a few tense, stressful minutes, the narrow tunnel opens up into a far larger room. The ceiling is roughly twenty feet high, and there is a old, unsteady-looking wooden ramp leading up to a small room built into the upper section of the wall. The walls are lined with sarcophagi. At the far end of the room is a continuation of the tunnel, blocked off by a sturdy metal gate. Hadvar steps up to it, and heaves with all his might. The muscles in his shoulders and neck bulge visibly, as he exerts himself, but the heavy metal structure doesn't budge.

He steps back, panting slightly. "Alright. Daanik, find some way to open this gate. The rest of you, make sure that nothing's lurking in those coffins along the walls."

Some of the soldiers grumble in displeasure, but I don't stick around long enough to listen. Quickly, I stride to the foot of the wooden ramp, and ascend, cloak flapping. I reach the small room at the top, and look around. The space is empty, except for a small chest in the right hand corner, and a pedestal in the center, holding a small, iron dagger. I rummage through the chest, and retrieve two health potions, mostly out of habit. It's unlikely that I'd need them, at this point. Pocketing the vials, I walk over to the waist-high stone pillar, containing the dagger, and examine it. The surface is so clearly a pressure plate, it's almost comical.

The ancient nords were a simple race. I think, dryly, as I remove the knife from it's resting place. The surface of the pedestal rises slightly, and with a grinding sound, the gate below opens. A few of the soldiers jerk in surprise at the unexpected sound, readying their weapons. One even lets out some sort of sound, something halfway between a yelp and a battle cry. Kastus sniggers, and Hadvar chuckles, as the man's face reddens. Even Camilla smiles.

I rejoin the rest of the battalion, and Hadvar addresses me. "Well done." He rumbles. I nod curtly.

"Right, then." He continues, looking away, seeming slightly put off by my overall attitude. "Let's go."

He walks through the opening, motioning for the soldiers to accompany him. They do, and I follow suit, trailing behind the group this time. Kastus notices, and joins me, to my frustration.

"How've you been?" He asks vaguely, as we walk. His tone is hushed, for fear of waking the draugr.

"Fine." I reply, not looking at the Breton. I sheathe my blades, and straighten up, sick of sneaking through the dank ruin. Kastus quickly follows suit, and continues his inquisition.

"Good." He pauses. Then, "How is lady Gabriella?"

"Dead."

He stops short, and I shoot a glance at his face. His expression is taken aback, and full of pity. He doesn't know quite what to make of me. I grit my teeth in anger, and look away.

"I'm sorry." He murmurs, resting his hand on my shoulder. I stiffen, and he notices, dropping his arm back to his side with a lost look written across his features.

A moment passes. "We'll talk later." He mutters. I nod, with absolutely no intention of having a conversation with the Breton, and he heads back to the front of the group, joining Hadvar and Camilla.

The rest of our journey continues in relative silence, with only three interruptions; two from Stormcloak soldiers, and one from a group of draugr that one of the soldiers woke by stepping on a pressure plate. The man had been crushed by a swinging wall of spikes, and the tremendous crash had alerted the undead to our presence. We'd lost three soldiers so far, including the man who'd blundered into the trap. The fear that had pervaded the regiment had quickly been replaced by a bitter resolve, a "let's just do this and get out" mindset that, thankfully, discouraged any form of conversation.

After half an hour of tense, irritable sneaking, exacerbated by the unpleasantness of the dank cave, we come to a long, oval-shaped hallway. The members of the core enter to investigate, while the backup soldiers remain outside until given further instructions.

"This must be the Hall of Stories!" Camilla gasps, her soft voice filled with awe. She pads over to the wall, and trails her fingers lightly across the intricate carvings etched into it's stony surface. "Imagine, the amount of knowledge that could be recorded here."

Kastus snorts derisively, walking up next to her. "Yes, because a culture that saw a hidden lever as the height of trickery in a puzzle door must have such wisdom to offer."

The imperial woman glares at him, and smacks the back of his head sharply. He yelps, and Hadvar snickers. She gives them both a dirty look, before going back to examining the wall. Bored, the Breton wanders off to dig in a chest near the end of the tunnel.

"It says...the portal can be opened with a...a fingernail." Her brow furrows, and Hadvar snorts in amusement. "That makes no sense." She muses, frustration evident in her tone.

"You think?" Kastus mutters, pocketing whatever he'd found in the chest, and continuing on to plunder a wide burial urn.

Camilla ignores him. She continues to study the wall, and suddenly, her expression clears. "Ohhh."

Hadvar walks up behind her. "Find something?" He rumbles, squinting unnecessarily at the carvings.

"No." The woman mutters under her breath. "I said 'ohhh', because I'm just as confused as before."

I smirk.

"Say again?" Hadvar asks, oblivious to her comment. Camilla sighs.

"Nothing, ice-brain. Yes, I found something." She lifts her hand, her finger trailing along a specific part of the wall. "It says, 'the claw will unlock the gate'." She turns to me, her expression questioning. "Have you ever come across something like this before?"

I nod. "There's got to be a statue of dragon claw somewhere around here." I murmur, glancing around the hall. "It'll be made of a precious stone, or metal."

Kastus's voice echoes from the other end of the tunnel. "Something like this, eh?" He asks, holding aloft a heavy-looking black, spiky object.

I nod, again. "That'll be the ebony claw."

"Right, then." He exclaims, striding over to the circular lock at the end of the hall. He holds up the claw, and studies it for a moment, before inserting it's tips into the keyholes. Before I can stop him, he pulls the lever at the base of the door.

"Duck!" I yell, as I hear the whirring of mechanics above my head. The ground rumbles with my voice, and Kastus's copper eyes widen. He drops flat on the ground without a moment's pause, barely avoiding the heavy battering ram that slams into the wall directly where his head had been a split second earlier. Slowly, the heavy beam retracts back into the ceiling with a loud creak. The mechanism clicks as it settles back into place, leaving the room deadly silent.

I glance over at the Breton. His face is deathly pale, but he looks otherwise unharmed. "Thanks for that." He croaks, dusting off the front of his ebony armor, attempting to appear at ease.

I nod. "The three symbols above the keyhole have to be in the correct order before the door will open." I state, quietly walking up to him, and taking the claw from his outstretched hand. I study the inky-black object for a moment, then turn to the lock. With a grinding sound, I turn the gears, until it clicks into it's correct position.

Fox, moth, dragon.

I insert the claw, and turn it clockwise. The mechanics within the ancient door shift, and then slowly, with a deep, harsh grinding, the heavy slab of stone gradually descends into the ground, leaving the path before us open.

Hadvar steps forward. "This is it, then." He murmurs to himself. He turns around, and calls out to the rest of the battalion. "Come on men, we're almost to the end!" A couple of the soldiers cheer, as they file into the tunnel, and then into the room beyond. Kastus and Hadvar lead them, while Camilla and I follow behind.

The imperial woman pauses, as if waiting, and I motion for her to enter first. She opens her mouth to say something, but thinks better of it, and turns away awkwardly, before walking quickly through the door. I sigh, as I follow her. Instinctually, I know that she's going to try and speak to me, and ultimately get to know me. My lips curl into a scowl, as I assess her personality. She's most likely one of the types, that thinks she can change men. Fix them. The thought infuriates me, and I ball my hands into fists.

What are you suddenly so angry about? Amaril asks snidely, making his presence know.

Fuck off. I hiss back internally. This is not the time, nor the place.

I'm part of your mind, Daanik. He spits back. There are no other options for either time or place.

I ignore his voice, focusing instead on the movement of Camilla and the soldiers in front of me. Suddenly, I increase my pace, pushing past the imperial mage, and the rest of the battalion, until I'm at the front with Kastus and Hadvar. They look back at my arrival, and just as they do, we reach our final destination. The burly nord parts his lips to speak, but thankfully, Kastus clamps his hand across the man's mouth before he can. He mouths the word "quiet", before pointing to the center of the large room before us. The space is dominated by a huge throne, on which sits an equally monstrous draugr lord. His head is tiled to the side, and his eyes are dull; however, I know from experience that the slightest disturbance can, and would, wake the creature.

Hadvar looks confused for a moment, but then nods in comprehension. "Is that it?" He whispers, pointing to the almost tribal looking headdress atop the draugr's emaciated skull.

Kastus shrugs. "Must be."

I move to engage the undead denizen, but Hadvar stops me, shaking his head. "No, Dragonborn."

"What? Why?" I growl, annoyance rising in my chest.

"Because I can't very well report back to Legate Rikke, saying that my entire regiment sat back while you did our job for us." He replies, not sensing my anger. He grins. "The rest of us need some action too, you know." He claps me on the shoulder, and it's all I can do to keep from removing myself from his reach.

"Fine." I reply, curtly. I lean against the wall, as Hadvar addresses the soldiers in quick, hushed tones.

"Alright, men. All we need to do is finish off this last milk drinker." He motions to the draugr behind him. "Now, he's the guardian of the crown, so I expect he'll be somehow superior to the rest of the undead we've faced, so be on your guard." A chorus of assenting sounds rises from the soldiers, and Hadvar nods. "Good. For the Legion!"

And, with a wild cry, he charges forward, followed by the rest of the troops.

Then, multiple things happen at once. The draugr lord awakes, and lets loose a bone-chilling howl at the oncoming soldiers. They falter, and in that moment, six coffins on either side of the room, twelve in all, burst open. A horde of hissing, straining, growling undead lurch into combat, hemming in the stunned battalion. In the blink of an eye, four fall under the draugrs' dulled, ancient blades. I curse, violently, and leap into the fray just in time to catch a heavy battle axe intended for Hadvar's back. I turn around, and just as I do, one of the last three remaining soldiers sinks to the ground, clutching at a gash in his throat.

In that moment, ferocity takes over. My blades flash without any conscious decision on my part, weaving a web of metal that parries, stabs, and slashes without missing a beat. One, then two, then four, then six, then eight undead fall before Bahlok and Nax. But just as I lash out at the chest of the ninth creature, I see a flicker of movement out of the corner of my eye. I dimly recognize that I don't have time to move, as the draugr lord's ebony blade slices horizontally across my right wrist, removing the leather, skin, and muscle from the bone. Unconsciously, I drop Nax, and clutch my wounded hand to my body, slashing wildly with my remaining arm. The draugr lord's head hits the ground with a dull thump, and I whirl around, just in time to see Kastus yanking his sword out of one of the creatures, while the last two raise their twin war axes in preparation to strike me down.

My mind is a blur of pain. The events around me seem slow, sluggish, and strangely bright. I look down, and in dimly amazed at the concept of watching my own bones move beneath my skin. The white of the bones sears my eyes, however, and I look up again, as the two axes descend towards my neck and chest. In desperation, I do the last thing available to me, the only action I have time for: I scream.

I open my mouth, and let out a wild roar. As soon as the sound reaches my ears, a deafening thunderclap blasts through the air, and the draugr hurled backward. The entire cavern shakes, and the two undead slam against the wall, their brittle bodies shattering on impact. The room continues to shake, however, and debris fills the air as I sink to the ground, clutching my wound.

I'm not sure how long it takes, but after a while, the dust settles. I continue to stare at the ground, my mind numb from the shock. I haven't been wounded in years. I think, sluggishly. Somewhere in my mind, Amaril sneers at me, but I feel no response towards him.

Suddenly, I feel a soft hand on my shoulder, and I flinch violently. The place where she touched me burns, and I leap into the air, recoiling back. I press myself against the wall with a hunted expression on my face, eyes wild. I turn to glare at whoever dared to touch me, and my animalistic gaze meets Camilla's deep, brown one. For a second, she looks hurt at my reaction, but then she straightens up, and her expression clears.

"Calm down, Daanik." I whip my head around as Kastus addresses me from the right. He steps forward, hands raised in a placating gesture, and I snarl at his movement. "It's alright, mate." He continues, his words soft and slow, as if trying to calm a wild animal. "Camilla just wants to heal your wounds. She's not gonna hurt you." He takes another step forward, and I shrink back. Over his shoulder, I see Hadvar standing at the exit to the rest of the ruin with the remaining soldiers. The expressions on their faces are all the same; pitying, and frightened.

My eyes flash back to the Breton, and my lip curls. Somehow, I find my voice. "I'm fine." I spit, yanking a healing potion out of my pocket with my good hand. Viciously, I wrench the cork out with my teeth, and down the entire vial of liquid in one go. I look down at my torn up wrist, as my skin slowly knits itself back together. As the amount of visual bone recedes, so does the pain, and the haze around my mind. After a minute, all that remains of the hideous laceration is a relatively minor gash. Slowly, I straighten up, and look around again, taking in the scene with an open gaze. The ground of the room is littered with chunks of stone varying in size from pebbles to boulders, knocked free by my unbridled voice. Spidering cracks stretch along the walls, from the floor to the ceiling, and everything is covered in a layer of dust. I notice the draugr lord's decapitated head laying a few feet to my left, and I move to pick it up. Camilla backs away from me as I advance, moving towards Kastus, and An unexpected pang lances through my stomach. I ignore the feeling, however, and pick up the skull, wrenching the crown free from it's stinking remains.

"Sorry." I murmur, handing the headdress to Kastus, refusing to meet his gaze. After a moment's pause, he accepts it, and I stride out of the room, past Hadvar, without giving anyone a chance to speak.

I tread quietly through the darkened camp. The night is silent, except for the crackling of the fire. I sit down, and lean forward, letting the blaze warm my skin. I shiver, despite of the heat. I lean my head in my hands, and squeeze my eyes shut. Memories of the day's earlier events well up in my consciousness, and I clench the muscles in my jaw, trying to force down the unpleasant stream of thought. Amaril's voice whispers in my skull. His tone is cold, malicious, but I can't make out any individual words.

Suddenly, I hear a muted a voice from the command tent, about five yards to my right. I straighten up, and my ears prick, as I listen intently, trying to pick up what's being said. I hear Hadvar's rough voice over the whispering of the flames.

"Did you see how he took out the archers?" He asks, his voice tinted with incredulity. "And what he did to the soldiers on the surface?" He pauses for a minute, then continues. "I've never seen someone fight like that."

Daenlin's smooth voice raises in response. "No one has, Hadvar." He says, softly. "No one else can shout like that. Can you imagine what could have happened if he'd used that inside the ruin?"

A pause follows his words, and I can imagine Hadvar shifting uncomfortably.

"He didn't..." Daenlin hisses. "What was he thinking? He could have killed all of you, as well as himself."

Camilla cuts in, softly. Her voice is thoughtful. "I don't think he did it on purpose." She muses. Then, "Did either of you actually hear him use any words of power?"

Silence follows her inquiry, and I assume both Kastus and Hadvar are shaking their heads.

"I don't think so." The nord adds, in his rough Skyrim accent.

"Then he's even more dangerous than before." Daenlin shoots back, the aggression clear in his voice.

"Slow down, mate." Kastus interjects. His tone is mild, but I sense steel beneath his words. "I've known Daanik since he was a young boy. I inducted him into the Companions myself. He is many things, but he's not dangerous. Deadly, without a doubt. But not dangerous." After a second, he amends his statement. "Not to us, anyway."

A minute passes, in which no one challenges the Breton's words. Finally, the wood elf replies, curtly.

"We'll see."

I hear a rustling sound, and remain completely motionless, as he and Hadvar exit the command tent, and enter their smaller, respective dwellings. Once I'm sure that they've settled in for the night, I straighten up again, listening to the two remaining members of the core speak. Neither says anything for a long time, and I begin to wonder if I should give up. Then, Kastus's voice breaks the silence.

"And what of you, Cam? Do you think he's a danger to us?"

A few seconds pass, without a response from Camilla. I wait, imagining the dark-haired woman chewing ponderously on her lip. Finally, she replies.

"I think he's hurt." She says, softly.

"Mmm."

Her words strike me harder than they should, and I release a breath I didn't know I was holding. My mind is reeling. I have no idea what to think of the day's events. I stand up, and pad quietly around the still-smoldering embers of the fire. I head towards my own tent, as the faint sounds of Kastus's last words reach my ears.

"We will see."

**I hope you enjoyed chapter six. Leave me a review, whether you did or not ;) I'll try and get chapter seven up by tomorrow evening :)****  
**


	7. Unbearable

**Sorry about the lull in updates. I just got back home, in the States, so that might affect my writing/consistency. How, I do not yet know. Anyways, enjoy chapter seven :)**

Chapter 7

I rise early the next morning, just as the sun begins to crest over the horizon. The first bright rays of light shimmer across the snowy ground, giving the world the appearance of perfection. The day seems pure, bathed in white light, at the moment of it's birth. I tread carefully through the snow, my Nordic blood warding off the cold as the icy crystals touch my bare skin. I'm barefoot, wearing only black trousers and a fitted green shirt, and carrying a thick fur blanket slung over my shoulder. I inhale deeply, and then exhale, slowly, my breath rushing out from between my lips in a swirling stream of mist. The cloud catches the pale light, casting strange, opalescent shadows as the opaque substance dissipates in the chilly, early morning air. It snowed again during the night, and my feet leave fresh tracks in the ground. I pass the dirty remains of the fire pit, then the command tent, and continue on past the edge of the camp. I walk for a few minutes, until I reach a clear, sparkling river.

Quickly, I shed my clothes, and place them and the thick fur towel carefully on top of a boulder near the edge of the water. Slowly, I wade into the river, wearing only my underclothes. The smooth, wet pebbles feel pleasant against my feet. The feeling disappears, however, as first my feet, then my shins, my knees, and finally my lower abdomen all become numb as my skin hits the freezing water. I shiver, and my teeth chatter involuntarily as the chill of my environment spreads throughout my body. Quickly, I duck my head beneath the surface of the river, letting the water flow through my hair, removing the grime and filth of travel and battle. Seconds later, I resurface, the extreme cold forcing me to gasp for air. I grab and handful of snow, and scrub myself with it vigorously. The dust from the incident in the ruin separates from my skin, staining the water directly around my body a sluggish gray color.

Suddenly, I hear footsteps behind me, and then a startled exclamation.

"Shit!"

I whip around, droplets flying off my wet hair, just in time to see Camilla desperately try to sidestep behind a tree, covering her eyes at the same time.

"Sorry! I'm sorry!" She calls, still backing away. Not being able to see where she's going, her heel catches on an exposed tree root, and she falls.

Alarmed, I leap out of the water, and rush over to her.

"Are you alright?" I ask, as she sheepishly keeps her hands held in front of her face. I sigh. "I'm not naked, Camilla."

Slowly, she lowers her hands, and lets out a small "oh" sound. I offer her my hand, is she accepts it, still determinedly looking anywhere but at my dripping wet form. I pull her to her feet, and roll my eyes at her bashfulness.

"Hold on."

I walk over to where I'd left the thick fur, along with my clothes. I pick up the blanket, and wrap it around my body, both to dry and warm myself. It hugs my shoulders, and hangs down to my knees. I pull my black trousers on underneath it, but leave my shirt laying on the face of the boulder. I dry my hair with the outside of the fur, roughly, then wrap it around myself a bit tighter before walking back to where Camilla is standing.

"Better?" I ask, bemused.

She chuckles. "Yes." She smiles at me, still slightly embarrassed. "Sorry, again." She continues, "I was just out, planning on collecting some water for a pot of tea." She gestures vaguely towards the river, and holds up a tin kettle I hadn't noticed originally. "I didn't think anyone would be down here, this early. And I certainly didn't expect anyone to be bathing. It's freezing cold!" Her eyes widen. "By the eight, come on, we have to get you inside!"

I shake my head, slightly. "Don't worry. I'm very much used to the cold." I state, simply.

Her expression turns to one of incredulity. "Your hair is frozen to your skull." She observes, as if this decided the matter.

I shrug. "It is. Again, I'm used to it. I've lived in Skyrim most of my life."

"You're going to get sick!" She insists, voice full of worry.

I sigh. "I promise you, Camilla, I am, and will remain, completely healthy, regardless of the cold."

The imperial woman scowls, and plants her hands on her hips. "There's no way you're immune to cold, no matter how Nordic you may be. I'm the core's healer, and when I make a call on another member's health, what I say goes. So." She glares at me, her eyes mirroring the determined finality in her voice. "You need to get out of this cold!"

"Fine." I snap, agreeing primarily to end the conversation. "What do you want from me?"

"Common sense." She mutters under her breath. I let out a snort of laughter, despite myself.

"What do you want me to do?" I ask, emphasizing the last word.

"Follow me." She says briskly, before turning around, and walking back towards the camp. I roll my eyes, and follow her, deciding to retrieve my shirt later.

She leads me to a medium-sized tent at the far edge of the camp, two spaces down from the command tent and across the clearing from my own. The sun has risen higher in my absence, causing the snow to sparkle magnificently. The area is still completely deserted, however.

Suddenly, a thought occurs to me.

"Why is there no one on guard duty?"

Camilla turns to face me, not quite comprehending the question. "Why is no one...wait, what?"

"Everyone is asleep." I repeat myself, gesturing sharply towards the empty clearing. A tinge of annoyance seeps into my voice. "There's no one guarding the camp."

They should be more competent than this.

The woman's eyes widen, and she slaps her hand against her forehead. "Gods dammit...Kastus!" She screams, suddenly whipping around and stomping over to a tent near her own. She tears open the entry-flap, and sticks her head inside.

"Wake up you lazy Breton!" She yells, furiously. She disappears fully inside the tent, and I hear a muffled yelp, and a curse.

"For the love of Mara, woman, why would you kick a sleeping man?" Kastus demands, sleepily indignant.

"Because you're not supposed to be sleeping." Camilla hisses. "Now get up."

The man groans in distaste. "It's too early for this rubbish..." He yelps again; as his body is presumably abused by the Imperial woman's foot. "Fine! Fine, I'm getting up! Just don't kick me again." Kastus grumbles.

Camilla lets out a self-satisfied sound, and promptly reemerges from the dwelling. "Sorry about that." She says, primly, smoothing down the front of her clothes. She turns around, and continues on towards her tent. The corners of my mouth quirk upwards in amusement.

We reach the structure, and pass through the opening. The change in temperature is immediate; while the outside is undoubtedly freezing, the inside of the tent is pleasantly heated. Cozy, even.

"Do you have a stove in here?" I ask, surprised by the heat. I look around the small room, but notice nothing of the sort. I turn back to the woman, baffled. She shakes her head.

"No, nothing like that. It'd be far too inconvenient to transport. No." She reaches out towards the wall, and trails her fingers along the thick canvas. It seems to glow, just barely, at her touch. "The material is enchanted." She says, turning her attention back to me. "It contains a very mild fire spell, just something strong enough to keep the cold at bay."

"Hmm." I nod, and let out a small sound of acknowledgement.

She looks down at the kettle in her hand, then curses. "Gods damnit, I forgot to fetch that water!" She looks at me, eyes wide and apologetic. "Do you mind if I use melted snow? I'd go down to the river, it's just, I don't want to keep you waiting here, by yourself. But if you want, I'll go anyway, I don't mind the walk..." She trails off, slowly, leaving me confused, and slightly flustered.

"...No, don't worry about it. Melted snow is fine." I answer, hesitantly, not quite sure how to respond to the woman's demeanor.

Camilla nods once, and kneels down near the opening of the tent, reaching out to grab a few handfuls of snow. Once the kettle is full, she sits down, and places it in the middle of the floor. I follow suit, sitting down as well, and raise an eyebrow at the now seemingly inanimate kettle.

"It's enchanted too." The imperial woman murmurs. "It'll melt the snow, then boil it, and then I'll make the tea."

"That's fine." I respond. Then, "Are...you alright?" I ask, carefully. The fur around my shoulders droops, and I pull it back up around my body. I'm almost completely dry at this point.

Camilla sighs in exasperation at my question. "Yes, I'm fine." She mutters, seemingly annoyed with herself. "I'm just...nervous."

"Ah."

After a pause, I continue. "Do you mind if I ask, why?"

_Curious bastard, aren't you_? Amaril pipes up from the recesses of my mind. _Just leave; you're not meant to live among people._

I forcefully tune the elf out, just as Camilla responds.

"I just..." She stops, and takes a deep breath. Her pale brow furrows, dark eyebrows drawing together to form a sharp v-shape. "I don't want to make you uncomfortable." She begins again. I almost laugh. Almost. "I simply want you to understand that you can trust me." She continues, her voice gaining strength as she speaks. "As the core's healer, I need to be sure that those in my charge are comfortable enough with me to let me do my job. And yesterday, well..." She she stops, and shrugs apologetically. I tense, not knowing what to expect. "You kind of...flipped out." Her words are almost harsh, though I know she doesn't intend for them to be. My discomfort grows, and I fidget slightly, itching to be outside, in the cold, clean snow.

But then, her eyes soften, and her voice takes on a comforting quality. She shifts, and suddenly looks far less tense than before. "My point, is that you're among friends, Daanik. You can trust us. We're not going to hurt you."

Her voice rings in my head, repeating my name, over and over. It sounds so alien, coming from her lips. I've only ever heard it spoken twice in the last two years.

At her last phrase, she reaches out, and rests her hand on my arm, in what I'm sure was meant to be a warm, reassuring gesture. I can't help myself, though. My entire body goes rigid, and my muscles strain, as I try with all my might to keep myself from slapping her arm away. Her touch burns my skin; every second is painful, as if she'd pressed a white-hot branding iron against my flesh. It's nothing like Hadvar's affectionate punch, or Kastus's companionable shoulder-grasping. Camilla's touch means something, or at least, it was supposed to.

The very idea of another person touching me out of pity, to comfort me, makes me blanch.

"I'm sorry. I need...I have to go." I mutter, trying and failing to keep my voice steady. Swiftly, I stand up, turn around, and duck out of the tent before I have a chance to see the expression on Camilla's face.

I walk quickly through the camp, just trying to get away, away. As I retreat, I hear the sound of the tea kettle, whistling shrilly in the distance.

* * *

My mind is reeling. I walk through the forest, faster and faster, stumbling, leaning against trees and scuffing my feet against invisible rocks and roots buried in the snow. My vision swims, and everything grows brighter, as the light reflecting off the snow increases dramatically. Vaguely, the thought registers with me that the increase in brightness indicates that I must have stumbled into a clearing. I take another step forward, and nearly lose my balance as my foots impacts something sharp. I feel something tear through my skin, then pierce my foot. I look down. Blood stains the snow; red drips onto the white. I look up, squinting, and raise my hand to shield my eyes from the blinding sun. I try to step back into the shadow of the trees, but my heel catches, and I fall. As I do, a puff of white snow is displaced by my body, and flies up into the air around me. I look around. It's shining, glittering fragilely in the sky. I suddenly realize that my head is throbbing, and just as I do, my vision darkens, and goes black.

* * *

"Fuck!" An accented Breton voice curses. I hear something topple over, and the sound of rapid footsteps making their way towards me.

"What in Oblivion happened to him?" Another voice, male, hisses angrily.

"I don't know." A soft, feminine voice replies, quietly. "I just found him like this, laying in the snow."

"His face is covered in blood." A deep, Nordic man rumbles.

Rough hands jerk me around, and I feel myself swinging through the air, before being let down on something soft, and comfortable. I shift slightly, and unconsciously let out a groan. A vicious pang lances through my skull, and my stomach heaves. I retch, and cough, but no more.

"He's lost a lot of blood." The female voice murmurs, and I feel a soft, cool hand on my forehead. "The back of his head is soaked in it..." The voice trails off, as the hand on my forehead lightly grasps my chin, and the other rests on the back of my head. I feel it, as I'm physically moved, my head turned for me, without any will or control on my part. I try to resist, I try to force my head around, but I can't. I'm too weak; I don't have the strength.

"Ff..._fuck_." I croak, before slipping back into unconsciousness.

* * *

_Boom. Boom boom. Boom. Boom boom_.

The ethereal drumbeats echo across the crimson field, shaking the ground and vibrating deep within my bones. The deep, sequential pounding beats like a living heart, slowly, deeply, forcing languid blood through the veins of some massive creature.

_Boom. Boom boom._

I look around, surveying the short, stubby grass, twitching subtly in the sharp breeze. And then, the chanting begins.

"Ra, ro, ha! Ra, ro, ha!"

Rough voices begin to sing, low, and halting, repeating the mantra of short-stop growling over and over, louder and louder.

"Ra, ro, ha! Ra, ro, ha!"

The drumbeat continues, speeding up with the increased velocity of the chanting. The heart beats faster, faster, and the massive beast stirs from it's slumber. Armored feet begin to stomp in time to the vocalizations, each growling grunt punctuated by the sound of boots, or the hilt of a spear, slamming into the hard ground.

"Ra, ro, ha! Ra, ro, ha!" _Boom. Boom boom. Boom. Boom boom_.

I turn around slowly, eyes wide in fearful anticipation, as the chanting reaches a fevered pitch, washing over me in a wave of sound, captivating me, ensnaring my entire being. Before me, stands the entire Imperial Legion, fully outfitted, ready for battle. Catapults creak in the distance, amidst the sound of stomping boots and the roar of thousands of voices. The soldiers shake their weapons ferociously, each swing in time to the primal music. The drum beats even faster, and the stamping increases, and the chanting grows even more fevered. The heart of the beast pumps faster, faster, and it rears it's head, as hot blood courses through it's veins. And just as it does, I whip around, and let out a furious roar, an unidentifiable shout in the dragon language. A sonic boom echoes across the barren field at my words, and suddenly, everything is silent. The chanting, the stomping, everything is gone.

I turn around again, and with a strike of fear, I realize that I'm alone. Nothing remains of the Legion; not even the grass is trampled. A sudden gust of wind blasts across the field, tossing my hair back and howling eerily into the silence. I turn around again, and squint.

Suddenly, I see movement on the horizon. A line of soldiers appears, stretching a thousand strong, standing shoulder to shoulder. They're all of varying heights; some six feet, and others as tall as eight. Their features, however, are obscured from the light of the red sun shining on them from behind. They snap to attention, and stand completely still, motionless and silent. The sight is unsettling.

Then, another line of men appears behind the first. Then, another. And another. Rank upon rank of soldiers marches upon behind the last in a seemingly never ending stream, until I'm facing a veritable sea of figures.

Then, they start their own chanting. It's broken, discordant, an unorganized mixture of grunting, bellowing, and battle-cries. The sound chills me to the bone. It increases by the second, growing louder and louder, faster and faster, until finally, it breaks into a pure wave of sound, and the army comes rushing towards me like the black tides of Oblivion.

Just as they do, the crimson sun sets below the horizon. As it's last rays of light disappear, the sky flashes once, immensely brightly. I throw up my arm to shield my eyes from the blinding light, and in the instant that I do, a thunderclap echoes through the world, a deep, cracking sound accentuated by a powerful, ancient voice, bellowing a single, broken word.

"DOVAHKIIN!"

My eyes snap open, and I wake up with a jolt, jerking up violently in bed. I'm panting heavily, and drenched in sweat. I look down at my hands. They're incredibly pale, and shaking. Suddenly, my stomach lurches, and I heave over the side of the bed. Nothing escapes my empty stomach, however. I retch for a few minutes, before my stomach settles somewhat. I roll over, onto my back, and lay there, breathing heavily. As I stare up at the ceiling of the tent that I'm apparently in, my vision begins to blur dangerously. The world spins, and tips on it's axis, as I teeter on the edge of consciousness. I grit my teeth, trying desperately to stay awake.

Suddenly, a vaguely humanoid shape enters my field of vision. A pale face, with long, dark hair, and almond-shaped eyes. Wearily, I cock my head, and squint slightly, trying to make out the person's features through my stupor.

All of a sudden, I'm aware that the person is speaking to me. And with the sound of her voice, my vision snaps into focus with an abrupt rigidity.

"Daanik? Can you hear me? Daanik?" Camilla calls, hovering over me. Her brown eyes look deeply concerned, and her dark tresses brush against my naked chest. I shrink away at the contact.

"Don't touch me." I croak out. "Please." My voice is fearful, almost desperate. Because I know that, in this case, all I can do is trust that she'll respect my wishes. I'm too weak to force the situation either way.

The Imperial woman's eyes soften, and her expression becomes one of quiet concern. Within it, I see sympathy, acceptance, and maybe hurt. But no pity. Empathy, but no pity. She withdraws slightly, to a more comfortable distance, sitting on a chair near the edge of the cot I'm laying on.

"I won't. I'm sorry." She murmurs, quietly. "But I have to heal you." She meets my gaze, her eyes filled with an irrefutable stubbornness. "Trust me." She whispers, moving to sit on the edge of my bed. Immediately, every muscle in my body tenses, straining against itself, trying to keep myself in place and attempting to flee at the same time.

"Don't-" I whisper, and my eyes stretch open wide, as pure fear courses through my veins.

I have to go, I need to get the fuck out of here, I have to GET OUT!

But I can't move. My body is paralyzed, whether by weakness or terror, I can't tell.

And then, suddenly, something cool washes over me. Like a blanket of water, but softer, lighter. It spreads throughout my body, and slowly, bit by bit, I relax, letting my muscles unwind. The soothing feeling of Camilla's magic fills my veins, slipping through my body, from the top of my skull, to the tips of my fingers, and to the soles of my feet. As it spreads, it replaces any tension, any fear I'd harbored before.

A deep calm settles over me, and a slight smile graces my lips. All of the vestiges of my nightmare are swept away, disappearing in the bright light of day. Quietly, my eyes slide shut, and I fall asleep.

**Reviewing is good. It makes me happy. It brings chapters :D**


	8. Crippled

**Hey, sorry it's taken so long for me to update. Anyhow, school is almost over, and once finals are done with, I'll be able to write far more often. Until then, enjoy chapter eight :)**

Chapter 8

I awaken to the feeling of a voracious hunger gnawing at the inside of my stomach. I groan, and roll over onto my back, before forcing my eyes open. Strangely, I feel no pain at the movement, and with renewed confidence, I sit all the way up. Tiredly, I rub my face with my hands, and the blanket that had been covering me slips off of my upper body, and pools around my waist. As my fingers massage my forehead, I feel something hard crusted onto the skin of my face. I scratch at it idly, my exhausted mind not quite processing the discovery. I lower my hands absentmindedly, and look down. Suddenly, I snap into a state of perfect consciousness, shocked at the sight of the flakes of dried blood in my palm. Vague memories course through my mind, images of a jumbled escape, red droplets on a white expanse, and a fall. And a very bright, very soothing golden light.

I shake my head violently, trying to clear my thoughts. I look around, and notice a small bowl of water and a washcloth sitting on a stool next to my cot. I pick up the bowl with both hands, careful not to spill any of it's contents, and look down into it's depths, studying my rippling reflection. It takes a moment, before I fully comprehend what I see.

My entire face looks dark, as if covered in a layer of dry, cracked mud. Only a few patches of skin are visible beneath the dried blood, and the stand out starkly against their dark, crusted backdrop. I curse, ad run a hand through my hair, trying to find the source of the blood. My searching proves fruitless, however. Troubled, I pick up the towel, and clean the grime from my face, pausing every so often to rinse out the cloth.

By the time I'm finished, the water in the bowl is completely opaque. Just as I move to get up and empty it, the tent's flap rustles, and Camilla enters. A pleased, then guarded expression crosses her face when she sees me.

"Oh, Daanik. You're up." She says, setting down the bundle of clothes she'd been carrying. She turns her back to me, and busies herself with an assortment of potions and vials in a table at the far end of the tent. "How do you feel?" She asks over her shoulder. The glass vials clink together quietly.

"Really good, actually." I murmur, my voice rough from lack of use. I clear my throat. "Sorry. Yea, I feel much better." I nod towards the now dirty bowl and washcloth. "Thank you, for that."

She shrugs. "You asked me not to touch you. So I didn't."

Sighing, I sit up, and rub my face with my hands. "What happened to me?" I ask, after a second. Camilla turns around, and I look up at her face. Her expression is still very guarded, intentionally unreadable.

The dark-haired woman shrugs again. "I don't know. Not really. You hurt your head, but beyond that..." She moves suddenly, gliding over to the stool next to my bed. She picks up the bowl and washcloth, and places them on the floor near her feet, before sitting down on the cot next to me. "What was it, that I did, that upset you so much?" She whispers, eyes suddenly wide with apologetic concern.

"I just...I don't like being touched." I reply, not meeting her gaze.

"Why?"

I shift awkwardly for a moment, trying to come up with a satisfactory answer. I open my mouth, then close it again. A thought comes to me, and I crack a wry, almost bitter smile

"I'm insane." I answer, simply.

To my utter bewilderment, Camilla laughs. I stare at her, stunned, as she chuckles into her hand. Finally, she says, "In my experience, Daanik, all the best people are at least slightly insane."

I stare at her, dumbfounded. I feel Amaril lift his head in the back of my min. _Recognize your own words, do you? _I ask the elf. He doesn't respond.

The imperial woman smiles at my expression. Her eyes soften. "Just call, if you need anything." She says, standing up to leave. "New clothes are over there." She says, motioning towards the bundle. She moves to step out of the tent.

Suddenly, something grips me. "Wait!" I choke out, probably louder than necessary. The woman flinches, and stops, startled, turning back to face me.

"I'm...I'm sorry." I mutter, looking down, not wanting to see her expression.'

_She's afraid of you. _Amaril whispers gleefully. I clench the blanket in my hands, and look up at Camilla.

A ghost of a smile passes across her features, just for a moment. "Don't be." She murmurs. Then, she steps out of the tent, leaving me alone. Alone, and very confused.

* * *

The sharp, rough rasp of a whetstone against Nax's honed blade puts on my teeth on edge. The repetitive action, however, is soothing, and as long as I block out the aggravating sound, my calm increases. I stare at the sword's perfect, onyx surface, as it gleams in the flickering firelight; the whispering tongues of heat casting sharp, bright spears through the infinitely black material. I raise it slightly, ceasing the motions of the whetstone, and watch as the gleam slides smoothly up and down the weapon, reflecting jaggedly off of the serrated section near the hilt.

"That's a beautiful instrument." A breton voice states from behind me. I turn around, and Kastus approaches the fire pit around which I'd previously been sitting alone. He walks around it's perimeter, before sitting down across from me, leaving about three feet of distance between us. He picks up a stick, and prods the embers, playing with the sparks that bust forth at his stimulus. "Where did you get it?" He asks. His tone is patronizingly curious.

"I made it. Them." I reply quietly, patting Bahlok in it's sheathe, laying inanimate on the ground next to me.

Kastus whistles. 'That must be a handy skill to have. I didn't know you were so talented a smith."

"Hm."

The lull in our conversation stretches, and after a while, grows uncomfortable. Kastus fidgets awkwardly, and I pick up the whetstone again, intending to resume my work.

"Well..." The Breton mutters, pushing himself up off the ground into a standing position. "I'm gonna turn in. Goodnight, Daanik."

I'm about to reply, when suddenly, a panicked voice from the east of the camp stops me.

"Wake up! Wake up!"

I leap to my feet in a flash, dropping the whetstone and grabbing Bahlok in my left hand, before turning towards the source of the call. At first, I can't make out anything between the dark pines. But then, I squint, and see a flicker of movement; a figure, sprinting towards the camp, through the snow. He flashes past the horses, and bursts into the main area, panting furiously.

"Wake up!" He bellows, cupping his hands around his mouth to amplify his voice.

"What is it?" I demand, gripping my blades tightly. Soldiers begin to emerge from their tents, groggily rubbing their eyes, weapons grasped loosely. The sentry bends over, panting, and rests his hands on his knees. After a few seconds, he finds his breath.

"Stormcloaks." He pants, without looking up.

"What? Where? How many?" Kastus barks from my right. He strides forward, and grips the man by his shoulders. "Come on, man, I need information!"

"About thirty." He gasps. "Five minutes. Some on horseback."

The Breton curses violently, and rushes to the nearest tent. "Hadvar! Wake up, we've got Stormcloaks!"

The massive man barrels out of his dwelling almost instantly. "Where?" He rumbles, as Camilla and Daenlin each step out into the clearing from their respective tents. The imperial woman yaws, looking exhausted.

"They'll arrive in minutes." Kastus answers. "There's thirty of them, and they've brought horses."

Hadvar curses. "We only have ten soldiers left, in all. Eleven, if you count the blacksmith. Fuck!" He barks, yanking his massive greatsword from it's sheathe on his back.

Kastus follows suit, and so do the rest of soldiers. A flurry of rasping and scraping of metal on metal as swords are unsheathed, and maces and axes are held at the ready.

"Alright. Places, everyone!" Hadvar roars, as the battallion rushes to obey his command. The petty soldiers arrange themselves in a half-moon shape, curving inwards, facing in the direction from which the sentry had come. Camilla and Daenlin take their places behind the soldiers, and Hadvar, Kastus, and I array ourselves in the center of the scoop-shape. I draw Bahlok, and drop it's sheathe, unwilling to take the time and effort to buckle it to my belt. The razor metal whines piercingly as it slides against it's metal casing. As I complete the motion, the sound stops, and silence envelopes the clearing.

For what seems like an incredibly long stretch of time, nothing happens. Nobody moves. Nobody breathes. With every passing second, with every thump of my accelerating heartbeat, the tension mounts, becoming physical, tangible, relentlessly suffocating. Someone coughs behind me, and my head jerks around. The soldier who'd made the sound pales at my glare, and just as I turn back, the dull sound of hooves pounding against the snow reaches my ears.

"Steady..." Hadvar murmurs, clenching his sword tightly.

The soldiers fidget nervously, some cracking their necks, others shifting from foot-to-foot to relieve their anxiety.

"Come on..." One murmurs, twitching his sword back and forth in the air.

With every second the sound of the hoof beats grows louder, stomping, crashing through the lightly wooded area until finally, a group of ten figures on an equal number of horses explodes outwards from the trees. The massive beasts leading the charge rear up furiously, front legs thrashing and eyes wild in the moonlight as a chorus of whinnying and slamming hooves pummels my ears. The figures riding the monstrous beasts are tall, very tall, and slim, not built like typical nords. I'm taken aback for a split second, but it's too dark to make out their features, and so I push the thought down for later examination. The riders unsheathe their blades, long, thin rapiers, and just as they do, I push past Kastus and Hadvar, taking a deep breath in preparation to shout.

"**FUS RO DA**!"

But the riders aren't hurled back. No shock wave erupts from my throat, and no deafening report echoes across Skyrim. The shout doesn't even leave my body. Or, at least, that's what it feels like.

The force of the thu'um slams into the front of my skull, pressing against my eyes and ricocheting around in my head with an unbelievable ferocity. I let out a strangled cry, and sink to the ground. I clutch my scalp, trying to keep it from being torn in two. Blood drips from my nose, and I taste it, as it reaches my lips. My heart pounds wildly, thunderously in my ears, blocking out all other noises. I screw my eyes shut tightly. Dimly, I'm aware of figures rushing past me, the clashing of blades, and the explosions and crackling magical attacks being hurled through the air.

Slowly, my heartbeat drops, and the pain recedes. Tentatively, I open my eyes, and when nothing happens, I open them fully. Suddenly, an arrow whizzes past my face, and with a start, I remember where I am. I grab my blades from where I'd dropped them at my sides. In a flash, I'm up, leaping behind a legionnaire, about to push past him to rejoin the rest of the core. Suddenly, a thin, golden sword sprouts from his back. He lets out a gurgling choke, one final death-rattle, before he falls. In his place, stands a high elf. I have to look up to see his face; he's easily over seven feet tall. His eyes, hard, golden orbs, the same shade as his blade, meet my blue ones, and a grin stretches across his face.

"Ahh. You must be the dragon slayer." He hisses. Suddenly, without another word, he raises his weapon, and slashes at me in a downward swipe meant to be a death-blow.

Inhumanly quickly, I twist to the side, and in the same motion, slash upwards with my blade so that our weapons strike each other in a cross-shape. A metallic clang, and a tinny screeching sound rings in my ears as my daedric sword tears through his elven one, shortening it by a good two feet.

The elf stares down at his blade, dumbfounded, and then back at me with a new hint of fear in his eyes. Now, it's my turn to grin, as I slash vertically, leaving a deep gash diagonally across his chest. He clutches the wound, and falls to the ground. He twitches slightly, and his blood stains the snow beneath him a dark crimson.

I look down at the Altmer's face, his features frozen in an expression of shock that mimics my own. _An __ef_?! Suddenly, the enemy foot soldiers arrive. Roughly twenty burly nords clad in blue mail storm into the camp, bellowing battle-cries and swinging heavy weapons. To my left, I see a legionnaire fall, decapitated by one of the remaining riders. I lunge after the elf, slashing at his horse's legs and then severing the rider's spine with a quick swipe. He topples off his animal, face turned upwards. His glassy, golden eyes stare up at the night sky, wide open, and yet unseeing.

I make quick work of the remaining elven riders, and turn to look for the rest of my battalion. I spot them quickly; or, rather, I catch glimpses of the core and the two remaining backup soldiers amidst a throng of thrashing, blue-clad bodies. I leap towards the fray, felling three Stormcloaks from behind before they so much as notice my presence. The fourth turns at the sound of tearing flesh, but too slowly. I lash out at him with my boot, slamming my foot into his chest and hurling him back into his comrades. Six of them go down in a heap, and are quickly engulfed in a roaring inferno by Camilla's hand. Their screams fill the air, and I grimace at the smell of burning flesh.

Suddenly, a bellow of pain, and a sickening crunching sound echoes through the air. I whip around, just in time to see an enemy soldier yanking his war-axe out of Hadvar's shoulder. The massive man's arm goes limp, and he drops his blade. Blood pours down his torso, and he sways, just as the Stormcloak readies his weapon for the second time. In an instant, I whip Bahlok through the air. The sword spins, once, before impaling the soldier horizontally, through his neck. He clutches madly at the metal protruding from either side of his throat, and then drops to the ground.

"Camilla!" I yell, turning my attention back to Hadvar. He sways again, and begins to fall. I rush over, grabbing on to his heavy torso and propping him up with my shoulder. I shudder at the contact, and quickly lay the man down into the snow. I look up, searching for the imperial healer. Most of the Stormcloaks are already dead; only eight or so remain. Kastus defends against them furiously, while Daenlin and Camilla keep the majority of them at bay from the branches of a tall tree.

"Camilla!" I yell again, launching myself into the fray and ending the lives of two soldiers with a vicious flurry of slashing.

"What is it?" She calls out, firing off a thick, icy spear through a war hammer-wielding rebel's helmet. She scans the area quickly, attempting to distinguish the subject of my call. Her yes rest on Hadvar's prone form on the other side of the clearing, and immediately, she leaps down, nimbly jumping from branch to branch until she alights softly on the snowy forest floor. She sprints across the camp, whilst Daenlin's arrows and Kastus's blade claim the lives of four more soldiers, and I kill the remaining two. They fall to the ground, and I drop my swords, impaling them upright in the ground before running over to join Camilla. Kastus is right behind me, and Daenlin joins us a few seconds later.

"Gods above." The breton groans at the sight of Hadvar's wound. His shoulder is completely laid open, and gushing blood. The blade had chopped through the armor, skin, muscle, and most of the bone, severing half the joint. The snow around the nord is veritably soaked in blood.

"It's lucky that he's unconscious." Daenlin murmurs. "Can you fix this?" He asks, turning towards the healer.

She bites her lip, and wordlessly begins working. Golden light flows from her palms, and washes over the ghastly wound. After a while, she replies, "I don't know. I can stop the bleeding, but..." She trails off. "His arm might be useless."

Kastus curses violently, hurling his sword at a nearby tree and stalking away, his hands tangled in his close-cropped hair. His ebony blade slams horizontally into the trunk, and it sticks there, quivering. Daenlin, on the other hand, doesn't react. He doesn't move, nor does he speak. He continues to stand in place, watching.

Suddenly, he turns towards me. "Why couldn't you shout?" He asks bluntly, his eyes narrowed. Irritation boils up hotly in my chest at his inquisition.

"I don't know." I snap, not looking at the elf.

He snorts derisively, and I turn to face him, glaring into his cold, slanted brown eyes. "What do you have to say to me, elf?" I hiss, taking a threatening step forward.

Daenlin moves closer as well, his eyes flashing. "_You_ are a liability." He snarls. "You pushed past Hadvar and Kastus, arrogant beyond belief, and _collapsed _there." He takes another step forward, and jabs me in the chest with his next words. "You failed. And maybe if you hadn't, maybe if you had any sense at all, any mastery of your own _abilities_, then Hadvar wouldn't be crippled!" He yells the last word, undiluted fury written across his face.

For a second, my vision flashes red. "Don't touch me." I growl, glaring menacingly at the elf.

He lets out a snort of laughter. "Or what? You'll punch me?" He pushes me again, and with a snarl, I lash out at him with both hands. My palms impact the elf's chest, slamming into him with a dull thump and hurling his light body backwards through the air. The blow sends him sprawling in the snow, gasping for breath. He picks himself back up quickly, however, and whips his bow off of his back, drawing and firing an arrow in a single, smooth motion. I sway to the side, and the barbed projectile whistles past harmlessly. Furious, I pick up a mace from a Stormcloak's corpse at my feet, and advance towards the elf.

"Stop it!" Camilla screams, leaping in between us. Cursing, I stop short, and, without enough time to stop the blow entirely, I alter it's course. The mace slams into the ground next to the woman. She doesn't flinch.

"What in Oblivion do you think you're doing?!" She seethes, looking back and forth between Daenlin and I. "You're grown men. Act like it." She spits the last words.

Daenlin shrugs, suddenly calm, and replaces his arrow in his quiver. Camilla turns her gaze towards me, and I scowl, holding her icy glare for a few moments. Finally, I give in, and hurl the mace across the clearing. It slams into a tree, leaving a deep, splintered dent in the wood. I stalk back to my tent, and don't look back.

* * *

A quiet voice from outside my dwelling attracts my attention.

"May I come in?"

After a second, I answer. "Yes."

A slim hand pulls back the canvas flap, and Camilla steps in, ducking through the small entryway. She sits down beside the lantern in the corner of the room. I put down the book I'd been reading, and turn to face her.

"What is it?" I inquire. To my own surprise, I'm not angry with her over the events of earlier. It had been three hours since the end of the battle. The sky was still pitch black.

"We need your help. To get rid of the bodies." She murmurs, not meeting my gaze.

"Alright. Of course, I'll help." I reply, quickly. Then, "Is Hadvar okay?"

Camilla shrugs. "He'll live. But I won't know if he'll have any use of his arm until he wakes up."

I nod, awkwardly, not knowing what to say. After a moment, the dark-haired woman mutters an excuse, and exits the tent, leaving me sitting, alone, in the flickering light of the dying lantern.

We clean the bodies up in silence, heaving them all into one large, grotesque funeral pyre. Once we're done, Camilla steps back, and envelopes the entire thing in an incredible blaze. The flames crackle and roar, and as the stench of burning flesh fills the air, I turn away, and walk into the woods. I continue on, step after step, yard after yard, until I find myself in another clearing, out of earshot of the camp, There, I position myself in the center of the circle of tress, throw back my shoulders, and shout at the sky.

The same abrupt, searing pain lances through me, jarring my bones and crushing me to my knees with it's intensity. I taste blood in my mouth. Slowly, I heave myself up again, and unsteadily resume my position. Again, I let the thu'um build in my chest, and utter the words of power. And again, I'm brought to my knees by the sheer force of the agony.

I don't know how long I stood out there, in the snow. Again and again, I attempt to shout, repeating the cycle over and over until I simply can't bear it anymore. I drag myself to my feet, and shut my eyes, trying to force myself to speak the words. My lips quiver, but my body refuses to obey me. Suddenly, nausea wells up in my stomach, and I heave forward. The acrid taste fills my mouth, and burns my throat, until I'm left hunched over, retching, with nothing left to give.

And so, I stumble back to the camp, just as the sun begins to crest over the horizon. I stagger to my tent, and collapse onto the cot. I pull myself into a seated position, and run my hands across my face, and tangle them in my hair. I hunch over, breathing heavily, trying to keep the remnants of my sanity together. But the desperation doesn't go away; the feeling of helplessness, of being fundamentally crippled, pervades every fiber of my being.

I sit like that for a long time, trying to numb my mind. Nothing disrupts me; no one comes in to disturb me. No sound breaks upon my ears, except the rasp of my own breathing, loud and harsh in the silence of the night.

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